


wished

by orphan_account



Category: Men's Football RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, Getting Together, M/M, Pining, Slow Burn, Teacher-Student Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-04
Updated: 2019-02-09
Packaged: 2019-10-02 22:00:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 22,917
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17271917
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: harry’s always been the teacher’s pet





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> note: harry is over 18 and all sexual/romantic interaction between him and gareth takes place after he’s left school. it’s still not the healthiest of relationships, but it is legal in the UK  
> this isn’t a depressing or serious story though i promise!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yeahhhhh. i’m not sure either  
> set in 2012, when harry would have actually been 18, but everyone’s the same age and birthdays will probably be changed 
> 
> i don’t have a particular age for gareth in mind but that might change: the rating will go up at some point too

Harry considers himself fairly normal. He uses the same hair gel as all his friends, a slightly less overpowering body spray because he doesn’t want to cause anyone asthma, but the principle is the same. He gets a bit nervy if he can’t have his cornflakes for breakfast because frosties aren’t the same, and it just isn’t the right set up for the day. He’s been 18 long enough to stupidly not pick up his ID before he goes out, he’s so nearly finished school, and Harry. Well, the biggest crush Harry has ever harboured has been for his PE teacher.

 

It’s most definitely his achilles heel, the thorn in his side; all the phrases that allude to a great flaw. Harry has fancied his PE teacher for longer than he’d care to admit, even if he’s only realised in the last few months, revelation caused by some questionable porn and excessive shower wanking sessions. He feels he deals with it rather well, because he most definitely doesn’t peacock around him like the lads do with the fit young English teacher, he doesn’t flush, or get hard in class.

 

Harry’s just the teacher’s pet, and he stores up every fleeting touch and passing praise for when he strokes himself and comes all over the shower pane, embarrassingly quickly and always to the exact same tune. It’s the cross Harry has to bear, he feels, for having such a nice life. God had to throw a curveball. It’s only fair.

 

“You okay, darling?” His mum asks with a tired smile, eyes heavy behind her rushed plastering of makeup. She places a bowl in front of him, beside his cup of tea, and he nods in relief when he sees they are indeed cornflakes. All is okay.

 

“I’m alright, Mum.”

 

She coos as an afterthought, busying herself with packing Daisy’s lunchbox and sweeping up her paperwork in a jumbled pile she’ll complain about later. As she turns on the radio, cheesy 80s pop crackling through their kitchen, she runs a hand against the back of Harry’s neck and fiddles with his tie till it’s just perfect, tutting at the excess of gel spiking his hair up.

 

“Make sure to pick Daisy up after ballet.”

 

Harry nods disjointedly, focusing on shoving his soggy cornflakes into his mouth at lightning pace because this is his last ever double PE first thing on a Wednesday, and he likes to be early. Only because he feels it’s nice to set things up, he can’t expect the PE department to do it all. That’d be selfish.

 

“It’d be selfish, Del, not helping them out.”

 

Dele rolls his eyes and pushes his lollipop against the inside of his left cheek. Everyday for 32 Wednesday’s, Dele meets Harry early with some chemical confectionary hanging out his gob and a repetitive complaint about the early hour. He’ll fiddle about with his hair the entire walk, usually damp from his rushed shower and lack of time to use his many styling products, sometimes scuff his trainers against the low red brick wall that lines the pavement they walk down, only to whinge about the marks on his Nikes later. Harry has long since learnt to ignore it, even if Dele’s abnormally short tie is completely nonexistent on Wednesday mornings, and he makes no attempt to not be a grumpy sod.

 

“Mate, we haven’t all got Gazza’s dick down our throats. If you were any further up his arse, you’d taste his shit.”

 

Harry shoves him harder than he intended, watching with malicious triumph that he masks as weak concern, as Dele grazes his hand against the rusty fence to his right.

 

“If anyone’s sucking dick, it’s you. I don’t walk into school with a lollipop hanging out my mouth.”

 

Dele sticks his tongue out and mumbles something about usually having bubblegum, like that’s a solid defence.

 

“The girl’s like it. Nobody’s into that macho shit anymore, people like vulnerability in a man.”

 

It’s the kind of thing Dele will parrot out like he’s delivered worldly wisdom Harry should be eternally grateful for. In reality, it just makes him snort and kick a particularly sharp stone at Dele’s arse that only just misses its target.

 

“Whatever would the gossip mags do without your weekly readership. You’re saving them from bankruptcy.”

 

It’s the last thing they say before Dele pulls his lolly out his mouth with a disgusting pop and launches it at Harry, pelting off at an awkward run thanks to his ridiculously low waistband and rucksack hanging at his ankles. Harry would laugh if the offending object hadn’t smacked him right in the cheek, Dele’s sticky spit now coating the area and slowly bruising with the surprising accuracy of his throw. Harry wonders, in retrospect, why Dele was denied from the basketball team. Probably because he slammed into the team captain at the trials in his eagerness and gave him mild concussion, but in Harry’s humble and unbiased opinion, it’s all swings and roundabouts.

 

“Harry! How are you?”

 

It’s a voice so pleasant, it feels just the same as the early summer sun against the back of his head, light and relaxed. He suddenly doesn’t care that Dele has ran away from him, can’t even care that half his face is uncomfortably sticky because Mr. Southgate is smiling at him quietly as he sorts out the goalposts on the school field. He’s in his kit, Harry notices somewhat belatedly considering his predicament, and he sways between being pleased or disappointed; see, Mr. Southgate wears these gorgeously cut three piece suits when he’s not teaching that in the depths of Harry’s imagination he wears as he forces Harry onto his knees and -

 

But, yeah, the kit is good too. It shows off the lean muscle of his arms and legs, skin smooth and lines of his body sharp but graceful. Harry knows all of this without needing to look at this point, which he considers an achievement of sorts. He also knows that if Mr. Southgate speaks about something he’s passionate about for long enough he’ll run on forever, smile ruefully and laugh this beautiful, self-deprecating chuckle when he realises he’s off on a tangent, that Harry indulges any chance he can get; asking about football when they’re clearing up the field alone is usually his best bet. He also knows that he wrings his hands when he’s concentrating or thinking hard, that he stands with his hands behind his back when he’s watching intently and that his _well_ _done_ ’s feel like the world in a few syllables. Harry wished he’d paid as much attention to his GCSE’s, and then he might not have failed CDT.

 

“I’m not bad, what about you?”

 

“Excellent. Mind helping me sort the net out?”

 

And as much as Harry loves football, every inch of the sport, he would never go out of his way to help with mundane tasks like this for anyone else, and yet he jumps at the chance, grinning wide and nodding eagerly. Puppy dog charm unintentional, he brushes past Mr. Southgate and tries not to gasp at the feeling of his warm forearm against his own, half covered by his school shirt. Dele is sat at the edge of the field, he notices, new lolly in place and typing furiously on his Blackberry. When he tilts his head up, their eyes meet and they smirk, just in time for Harry to turn back round to Mr. Southgate and offer up his best, most polite, willing smile that always makes his teacher smile in return.

 

Harry isn’t sure if he’s just a dreadfully positive person, crazily idealistic and optimistic, to the point that he can imagine and make himself believe Mr. Southgate smiles at him just the same, but he likes his positivity if it means he can stumble through this disaster with a semblance of happiness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hah! i’m really not sure about this but i hope someone gets something from it. it is actually really fun to write, and silly enough that i’m not too fussed


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> apologies for taking this down but i decided i needed to. refocus. the plot  
> i’ve actually planned it out now but oh, how the mighty have fallen (sorry stonesy)

“Pairs, please! Second last week of school so no dilly dallying.”

 

Harry gladly links arms with Winks, who’s freckled cheeks are steadily tanning in this early heat wave. He’s telling Harry enthusiastically about how they should all go to Spain and he can teach them the language and make them paella with his Grandma. Harry nods along absentmindedly, smiling in all the right places and feeling belated guilty for not paying more attention but Mr. Southgate is directing the class with eyes only on him. Harry might be painfully oblivious to the obvious sometimes, but he’s hypersensitive to everything Mr. Southgate does and he can physically feel the heat of his stare, never more certain that it’s piercing right through him and him only. He’s buoyant with the triumph that gives him.

 

“One of you dribbles, the other tackles. Off you go!”

 

Winks launches into it immediately, threading the ball through their small patch of grass and with the weight of Mr. Southgate’s stare heavy on his back, Harry runs after him and uses all the tricks in his book, determined and prepared. Winks’ little howl when Harry successful curls the ball away from his left foot and into his own path is only a fraction of the gratification Harry gets from seeing Mr. Southgate nod his head quietly and smile his praise.

 

“Dele was right.” Winks whispers in his ear.

 

“Huh?”

 

“You’re in too deep. He’s a teacher, H. And, like, 40.”

 

Harry’s cheeks burn, mortification of the kind only the brutal truth can bring. He diverts his eyes and watches as Mr. Southgate walks off to nag at Emma for kicking Liam’s shin. The quiet scolding disapproval in his voice carries and Harry can only flush further, like he’s the one getting told off. He wouldn’t trust himself not to cry if he ever was.

 

“I don’t even _like_ him.”

 

The incredulous raise of Winks’ thick eyebrows hurts more than it should. Harry only comes to class early to help set up, and stays late to do the opposite, stares in a daydream when he’s not trying with every ounce of himself to impress, has bloody fantasies and wanks over them and apparently is very obvious about it all. It really shouldn’t hurt at all.

 

Winks’ carries on his vocalised planning of their grand trip to the Costa del Sol in a blatant decision to ignore Harry’s sudden petulance, rolling his eyes as they prepare their positions for 5-a-side because Harry is simpering, knows he is, makes a shitty joke just to see Mr. Southgate’s eyes crinkle as he grins and even the bitten-off slap of “teacher’s pet” doesn’t change the way he plays it all up, just to see him laugh and look at Harry like he’s something special.

 

For his last game of football at school, a pathetic attempt at 5-a-side with an A-level class already on the plane to Magaluf, Harry thinks he performs rather well. He scores twice, a solid, powerful strike into the right bottom corner from just outside the box and a tap-in that causes some controversy but Mr. Southgate still claps and says well done with gleaming eyes when he blows the final whistle. Someone cheers tiredly and 9 sluggish feet scuffle away, Harry, of course, stood right in front of Mr. Southgate to see the glint in his eye and fondness as Harry gushes about everything and nothing.

*

“Nice of you to join us. Throat hurt after that?”

 

Dele cackles, smacking Winks on the back in what Harry supposes was encouragement to join in but Winks only cries out and tells Dele _that_ _hurt_ in a small voice that makes him laugh. Their white shirts are grass stained, ties hanging from their necks as Winks tugs up chunks of grass and Dele hums along to the atrocious music rattling out of his Blackberry.

 

“Is this Labrinth?!”

 

“Featuring Tinie Tempah, it’s a tune.”

 

Harry snorts and rolls over onto his back, watching the clouds spread across the sky, wavering under the June sun. By September he’ll be at university, struggling through a course he probably won’t understand, just so he can get a job to earn enough money to go to the football every now and again, and maybe play for a Sunday league team on the side. Sometimes reality floods over him a little more aggressively than he can abide. It’s exhausting being hopeful all the time and Harry knows what his life holds, for all he wants the Premier League to know his name.

 

Dele is throwing Jelly Tots into his mouth with annoying accuracy, mouth smacking around them so loud it drowns out the tinny bass from his phone, playing Rizzle Kicks now.

 

“Rizzle kicks, really?”

 

Dele shrugs and turns it up with no care for their school field packed with sweating bodies and light, easy laughter. Harry likes the summer. He likes the warm easiness of it, made all the better by their early heatwave, English sun blessed and sweet and smelling of freshly cut grass.

 

“I’m getting a trim so I’m looking fresh for prom. It _is_ the most important night of the year.” Dele tells them confidently around a full mouthful of sweets.

 

“I’m not all that fussed.”

 

Harry agrees with Winksy. He might have been excited a few months ago, but he figures that was carry-over anticipation from Kate. She had been desperate for the whole shebang, demanding a limo and Harry to wear a smart grey suit to offset her bright pink dress she’d bought months earlier. Harry feels rather guilty when he remembers that all again and then thinks about how he dumped her with a sheepish smile and a scuff of his toes against the concrete.

 

He thought it was rather telling that she seemed more relieved than anything, nodding her head in faked disappointment and steering clear of him at school to keep up the social image of two teenage exes, when really they still talked everyday on Facebook and walked home sometimes after school.

 

“Earth to Hazza.”

“How many times, _Bamidele_ , don’t call me that.”

 

Dele shrugs and throws a particularly ambitious Jelly Tot into his open mouth. Harry feels rather robbed when it still lands on his tongue.

 

“Was just saying Gazza’s gonna be there.”

 

Dele’s eyes are twinkling almost as intensely as Harry’s stomach swoops through a rollercoaster ride in 5 seconds. It decides on excited nerves as it slows to a halt, no less intense but less lurching. Harry can just imagine now, walking into some attempt at grandeur, dressed as smart as his Mum can get him. Winksy and Dele flagging him like pathetic sidekicks only for a doorman to say, _oh_ _yes_ _sir_ , _you’re_ _sat_ _next_ _to_ _Mr_. _Southgate_ , and Harry will laugh cooly and flop into the seat beside him, admiring his three piece suit that’ll be perfectly tailored and then proceed to be endlessly charming and charismatic to the point that Mr. Southgate will have no choice but to drive him home and fuck him over his kitchen table.

 

In an ideal world that is. In the real world, Harry slowly reddens at his fantasy and has to endure the ridicule he gets for fancying, you know, a teacher.

 

“I’m gonna get a restraining order for the two of you in advance.”

 

Winks is almost earnest about it, but Dele just cackles for so long Harry can feel it ringing round his brain long after he’s stopped.

 

“Thanks, Winksy.”

“You should’ve seen them in PE today, Del. Harry’s all simpery, ‘ _yes_ , _Sir_ , _of_ _course_ , _Sir’_.”

 

Dele’s howl of laughter is deafening and Harry feels the slightest bit betrayed by Winks and his unnecessarily high-pitched impression, but he finds he can’t exactly care when his brain’s already caught up thinking about just how good Mr. Southgate will look in his three-piece suit. His dress shirt will cling just right to the contours of his upper arms, collar buttoned to his throat so if he was of a mind to, Harry could lick and bite into the line of his collarbone and get away with it.

*

It’s all Harry can think about as he smooths down the collar of his shirt, tie just the wrong side of tight around his neck. It’s hardly likely to ever happen, not outside of Harry’s nighttime fantasises (and increasingly daytime, too), but Harry can just imagine a line of red painted into the sensitive skin leading to his neck, hidden from Dele’s prying eyes by the sharp line of his suit. It’s an indulgent fantasy abruptly destroyed as his Mum ruffles his hair, misplacing all the carefully arranged and gelled strands.

 

“You look gorgeous, darling.”

 

Harry’s ears burn and Daisy giggles into her hands, her laughter completely overpowered by the guffaws Dele and Winks are hiding into each other’s shoulders, similarly suited and booted and looking just as ludicrous. Winksy is stumbling over his trouser legs because M&S didn’t have short enough bottoms. It’s a fact Dele will bring up over and over and over again throughout the night. Coherency varying depending on the number of drinks.

 

“Ever stop to think you could _not_ be a shit-stirrer, Delboy?”

 

Dele just sticks his tongue out and yanks Harry out of his Mum’s car, forcing him to say a hasty goodbye and endure a number of enthusiastic air-blown kisses from his Mum and Daisy’s overzealous waving, before she speeds away, leaving Harry with ‘the most important night of the year’.

 

It’s only Harry’s training grounds, the local football club decked out with banners and balloons and looking more like a 60th birthday party than the significant event Dele had promised, but he can hear the kind of shit chart music and rap that got Dele banned from a bus company for playing it on a crappy speaker on the back seats and the promise of alcohol, however cheap, so he lets Dele pull him in with a hand on his sleeve.

 

Tripps accosts them immediately at their entry, beaming and slopping Prosecco down his shirt, suit jacket already discarded, Stonesy wrapped around his back and similarly dishevelled. Harry wonders who thought it was a good idea to give 18 year olds free alcohol when the evidence of its effect is looking him in the eyes, but he’s hardly going to complain when a plastic glass is shoved into his hands.

 

“Harry!”

 

Dele looks like all his Christmas’ have come early as Mr. Southgate collars him, eyes bright and smile just as much, even clinking their glasses together as Harry steers them away from the ogling eyes of his friends and probably phone cameras. Harry wonders if he’s had a few drinks already and hates that he can’t tell. He only sees what Mr. Southgate wants him to, his control and composure perfectly intact regardless of the situation and it drives him mad with just wanting to _know_.

 

He’s triumphant, therefore, when he can see the change in Mr. Southgate’s character as they drink more and more of the free drinks thrusted in their direction, watching as his posture relaxes and his shoulders loosen. His laughter is even easier, smiling even more, everything about him slowing into this languid, vulnerable version Harry wants desperately in anyway he can.

 

Of course, along the way he’s been drinking just as much, his hair fallen out of place and the tie loosened, top buttons undone to soothe the strain on his throat. He’d gone to shuck off his suit jacket just moments before but Mr. Southgate had taken just that second to compliment it with a smile that said more words than Harry could ever comprehend and damn him, Harry would keep it on in 50℃ heat if Mr. Southgate thinks it looks nice.

 

He says something funny, something he can’t even remember but apparently it was amusing enough to make Mr. Southgate chuckle with a gentle shake of his whole body and he claps a hand against Harry’s back, palm resting a second longer than normal and if Harry’s not gone entirely crazy, he swears he feels the slight drag of Mr. Southgate’s thumb against his shoulder blade. Light and teasing and Harry is completely short-circuiting, trying to piece together what’s considered normal student-teacher contact because, right now, this doesn’t feel like it is.

 

The pressure remains, getting firmer perhaps, thumb definitely working in little motions if Harry is sure of one thing, even with his brain sloppy. It’s tunnel-vision, the only thing he can comprehend the corner they’ve made for themselves swamped by his classmates and best friends, colleagues and everyone who doesn’t understand the way Harry’s life feels singled into this one moment, tucked behind a table and somehow ignored by the masses, dreadfully light but painfully cautious, tipping on the tightrope. Wobbling back and forth.

 

He can’t stop staring, watching every movement Mr. Southgate makes. The way his fingers tighten around his glass when he brings it up to his mouth, the motion of his throat when he swallows, the slow dip of his eyelids when he smiles so deeply at something Harry’s said that they close for a languid second. He wipes a hand across his eyes, tears because of whatever Harry’s just said that he can’t remember and the thrill of it all, of pleasing and impressing sends him shivering into the hand still tracing gently along his shoulder. He suddenly wishes he’d taken his jacket off, so he’d feel the touch through only the thin fabric of his shirt. He shivers again.

 

“I miss being your coach, Harry. You’re beautiful on the ball.”

 

Harry near chokes on his mouthful of cheap fizz. His brain aches with the sudden knowledge, panic and gratitude and some strange arousal (of course) all clamouring for articulation but all he can manage is a strangled hiccup before he makes an active attempt to slow himself down and thank him properly. Mr. Southgate smiles like he knows something Harry doesn’t, a hidden secret in the depth of his eyes that Harry could spend hours trying to work out just for the thrill of it, buoyed now by the honesty he’s been shown.

 

“You’ll go far if you try hard. Matt says you’re as diligent as ever. I’m proud.”

 

Harry feels like he’s drowning, stuttering “I. Thank you. I’m not sure but. Thank you.”

 

If Harry could express the sheer intensity of his gratefulness the way he wanted, he’d be on his knees under the table and going about making a mess of Mr. Southgate’s perfect suit but, considering the environment, he has to make do with buzzing in his seat with the sheer pleasure he gets from the compliments. He’s smiling so dopily he knows, he’s sure every ounce of his desire reflecting in his eyes with childlike transparency, but Harry can’t contain everything fizzing out of him.

 

He’s a bit pathetic that way, he thinks. Mr. Southgate pats his hand where it rests on the table and Harry makes an aborted attempt to hold it in his, squeeze it tight and never let go, before realising he can’t, they can’t, it can’t happen. He tries to control everything inside him bouncing for attention, eyes shut against the strain. The fragility of the moment isn’t lost on him, every breathing inch liable to crack with a wrong step. This is nothing, Harry has to remind himself, nothing at all. This doesn’t mean he can start hoping.

 

“We should dance.”

 

So much for that.

”For a laugh.”

 

Mr. Southgate chuckles but it’s hitching, breathy in a way that has Harry crossing his legs awkwardly under the table and wincing against the feel of his cheap suit trousers. He’s looking at Harry like he might kiss him, probably a small, wistful press of lips Harry decides, or maybe just a finger stroking along his cheekbone. Harry thinks about the painted bruises he so badly wanted and sighs.

 

“I’d like nothing more, Harry, but you know that isn’t allowed.”

 

Harry wants to say _fuck_ _what’s_ _allowed_ but whines instead and feels the hand still on his shoulder tighten momentarily. He catches sight of Dele out of the corner of his eye, grinding dramatically into Stonesy to the booming of Timber (because, of course) and watching him flounder with a shit-eating grin Harry’s terrified of.

 

“I’ll be finished school by the end of the week.”

 

Harry isn’t sure why he’s playing himself like some jailbait, making this something weird, when he just _likes_ Mr. Southgate. Likes the clean lines of his body and the kindness etched into his face and the way he treats Harry and makes him feel like the centre of the universe with a few words. Harry thinks that’s something special, something real. The sad smile that tilts Mr. Southgate’s lips only confirms it.

 

“I hate to be a teacher to show favouritism, but I’m sure you know you’ve always been my favourite.”

 

He accompanies his words with the hand migrating to squeeze Harry’s thigh, pressure fleeting but firm and if things were different, different only in a few words, Harry would curl into it and into him, actually say _fuck_ _what’s_ _allowed_ and see how badly wrong things could go. He’s still realistic no matter how positive, however, and he just knows.

 

The hand leaves, as does Mr. Southgate, the heat of him leaving Harry physically cold and he suddenly feels a hell of a lot drunker with nothing to distract him from it. Everything’s pounding and he’s never wanted the ridiculous bantering of his best friends more, desperate for normality when his brain hurts trying to understand.

 

“Fucking hell, thought he’d never leave! Surprised you didn’t go for a quickie, the way you were eye-fucking him. Perv.”

 

Dele is chortling away to himself, arm slung around Tripps who looks a little worse for wear if the trickle of alcohol down his chin and assortment of stains on his shirt are anything to go by. Harry smiles gratefully and laughs along easily, leaning into the weight of Dele and joke punching Winksy to kickstart himself back on track.

 

“Tripps split up with his girlfriend, Stonesy’s just an alcoholic, Mr. Southgate can’t fuck you by law, you’re all in the shit and yet who’s the only one who reads advice columns? Delboy. I’ll help you through this lads!”

 

“Will you fuck!” Winksy yells, giggling when Dele kicks him in the shins.

 

“Know more than you, Harry Winks, haven’t seen you get some since never.”

 

They continue squabbling, gaining in pitch and ridiculousness and Harry can’t help but laugh. Dele reels off another cheap gossip mag advice page about how sexuality is fluid and they’re probably all actually bisexual and confused, seemingly choosing to ignore his alcoholism claim and neglecting to offer John advice for that. Even so, Harry can’t help but agree, confusion most definitely the overwhelming feeling in regards to _labels_.

 

When he peels off his sweat-damp dress shirt hours later, as sticky as the tacky nightclub he’d spent his time in watching Dele pinned to the wall by some blonde Disney prince character and John throw up madly, he stares at the unmarked skin of his collarbone for so long the drunken sheen over his eyes blurs as he takes himself in hand and comes in record time in an incriminating mark all over the mirror.

 

He dreams about a necklace of bruises and a hand on his thigh.

 


	3. Chapter 3

 

“Have you shagged yet?”

 

For the simple reason it’s Winks asking him, with an earnest scrunch of his eyebrows, Harry doesn’t explode. He goes red, because how can he not, but he remains calm, controlled, composed -

 

“No!” It’s nothing short of a wail.

 

“Hang on, H, think there’s some people in Milton Keynes that didn’t quite catch that.”

 

Harry swats at Dele’s leg, smacking his shin with a loud slap.

 

“Gaz probably just needs to source some viagra before he can give it a go.” He winks and Harry promptly feels even sicker than his already fragile stomach made him.

 

It may only be the day after prom, all of them black eyed in their hangovers and lack of sleep, Harry’s sweat literal vodka, but Dele is already insufferable about his Disney prince, informing them of their weddings plans or as good as. Tripps is astutely ignoring him as he gushes over and over, appropriately misty eyed, but Winksy looks as involved as Dele is. Harry is trying not to snort with laughter.

 

“We get it, you loved eating Prince Charming’s face.”

 

“Um, John Smith from Pocahontas is actually the only one who’s blonde?” (Harry groans) “He’s pretty though, in’e?”

 

“If you like ken dolls.”

 

“I’m in luck then.”

 

He was attractive, Harry guesses, in the most conventional of ways; blue eyes, perfect blonde hair and an easy smile, it’s was all handsome cliche Harry can’t really care for. For some bizarre reason, he seems to prefer 40 year old PE teachers.

 

“What’s his name, then?” Tripps asks absentmindedly, looking far more interested with the fraying of his trainer laces.

 

“Eric.”

 

“Eric?!”

 

It’s absolutely comical the way they all splutter it at the same time, Harry instantly smirking whilst Dele looks crestfallen.

 

“You’ve had a mare there, mate.”

 

Harry cackles smugly, laughter loudening as Dele remains to look confused and faintly betrayed. Somehow, he keeps up the cartoon likeness as happiness visibly bounces back into his face, turning to Harry with a satisfied little smile.

 

“Prince from the Little Mermaid was called Eric.”

 

Harry moans.

 

“You have got to stop watching Disney films, Del.”

 

*

The last week is a painful slog of boredom and nostalgia. It’s the summer that does it, Harry thinks, the smell of grass and sun cream reminiscent of childhood summer terms spent rolling down grass hills and sports days. He never thought he could miss school until he was facing leaving it all behind and now it seems monumental; safety for the unknown and Harry’s mildly terrified.

 

It doesn’t help that Mr. Southgate won’t look him in the eye. The warmth has gone, the steady eye contact and the easy praise. Harry’s just another kid to be put up with, an empty shell to be pushed around. He knows he’s being melodramatic but every time Mr. Southgate looks at him with an empty gaze where he would’ve smiled before, Harry wants to scream.

 

He considers deliberately grazing down someone’s shin with his trainers full force just for some reaction, just to be shouted at but Harry knows he could never do it, would only break down at the first sound of a raised voice and plus he doesn’t _really_ want to hurt anyone. He’s just tired and confused and a little bit jealous of Dele and how easily he can lie on his back in the field, stare at the sky and enthuse about Eric as he literally twirls his hair around his fingers. He’d feel guilty about it but he’s just finding everything unfair and knows deep down, he’s happy for him.

 

Very deep down.

 

Harry also considers barging into the staff room and demanding his help for some mundane thing, but he’s not so cruel as to force Mr. Southgate into his company under the eyes of his colleagues. Then he thinks about staying behind after class, but he thinks collecting cones in silence would shatter him. His final discarded plan is to corner Mr. Southgate in the corridor and muscle him into a cupboard of some sort, lock the door and wait it out until one of them apologises.

 

It’s just him and Dele, for the first time in days it feels. Dele points out his new trainers and Harry asks after his brother and it’s quiet and simple. The water of the canal ripples gently in the light breeze and Harry just watches as he listens to the softer side of Dele he sees when they just walk side by side, hands brushing gently and laughing comfortably.

 

“He won’t ignore you until you leave, H. He’ll regret it forever if he does.”

 

Harry doesn’t look up from the stone he’s kicking along with him, ignoring the way it’s dirtying up his new trainers. He doesn’t ask how Dele knows or what he means because for all he’s loud and boisterous and immature, Dele knows Harry and it kind of makes his heart hurt when he sees it.

 

“I’m literally just a pupil, Del. There’s nothing for him to regret.”

 

Dele shakes his head minutely, obviously trying to find the words. Harry feels faintly ridiculous; his self-pitying has become so noticeable he has to rely on his best friend to claw him back out over something he has no right or reason to be upset about. Nothing has happened and barely anything has changed - except in Harry’s world it all has.

 

“You’re his favourite bloody student, H. The man adores you in whatever way, I honestly don’t know, but he’ll miss you whatever. He spent the entirety of prom with you, for fucks sake.”

 

Harry wonders if Dele knows the extent of prom. A lonely part of him wants to divulge it all, listen to Dele laugh his request to dance up but ultimately lessen him of the weight of it. He thinks some things are better kept for yourself, however, and asking his PE teacher to dance whilst he was drunk at his sixth form prom and getting hard from a shoulder caress (Harry is certain that’s the correct word) is something best kept under wraps. Even from overeager best friends who’s gossip magazine reading does seem to pay off.

 

“C’mon, let’s get a slush.”

 

They sit with their feet dangling over the edge, toes skimming the surface of the canal. The water’s disgusting, Harry knows, thick green with how dirty it is but he still watches the surface carefully, tongue turning blue and Dele laughing happily next to him. He thinks about how things get left behind, and how he’ll have to do that. He’ll have to move away, away from swampy canals that get the soles of his trainers wet and blackberry bushes lining the field of wasteland behind his house, away from the car park he tore his knee apart in learning to ride a bike and the football ground where he scored his first goal.

“The sky’s the same everywhere.” He tells Dele, because he’s sad about all the things he won’t have anymore.

 

“I guess so.”

 

“You gonna miss home?”

 

“I’d say no, but I probably will. You don’t realise till you go, I think.”

 

Harry nods. Dele is watching him carefully, until he slurps his slush loudly and starts throwing stones into the canal, so a competition begins for the loudest splash and Harry forgets about feeling sentimental.

*

Wednesday rolls round faster than Harry expected, the last day of school facing him down so much quicker than he anticipated and there’s such a strange feeling of loss and excitement amongst them all that Harry feels a little displaced sitting in sweltering classrooms and sprawled across the field. Double PE passes without consequence, no smiles or shouting and Harry resigns himself to it. The smallest part of him that isn’t blaming himself thinks Mr. Southgate’s a coward. The majority of him berates himself for getting so caught up over something so stupid.

 

“You better get your arses to Spain, there’s 10 girls there with my name on.”

 

“Like fuck there is, they won’t let you on the plane with that metal plate in your head.”

 

“Ain’t no metal plate, _De_ - _le_ , just the brains to match the looks.”

 

“I can’t go to Spain and _not_ visit my Grandma!”

 

Harry watches with vague amusement as John literally flexes in front of them, leaping up from where he was flattened to the grass to prance around in support of his claims. Dele is trying his utmost to tear him down, with Winks providing relief in the form of whining about his Grandma. Harry just laughs and laughs until his head hurts a little.

 

“Best chance John’s got is Winksy’s Grandma!” He chuckles.

 

Dele looks delighted with his input, nudging his arm rather hard in support. Winks scrutinises John for a moment, squinting against the bright sunlight and seemingly in deep thought.

 

“Has anyone ever told you you look like the rat from Flushed Away?”

* 

Sitting in the seat opposite the teacher’s desk that Mr. Southgate is sitting at is Harry’s personal brand of torture. And, of course, it’s a suit day, the rota of which Harry is yet to work out, which means Harry can only stare slightly slack-mouthed as Tripps grows steadily more impatient with his lack of input. The dusting of pink high on Mr. Southgate’s cheeks suggests he can feel Harry’s eyes on him and Harry wonders if he just feels the weight of it or the trace through everything individually, along the muscles of his arms to his hands that flex every few minutes. Harry would be lying if he said he wasn’t keeping count of the regularity.

 

There’s a lot vying for attention and sitting on Harry’s tongue. _Hello_ is number one, maybe, followed by _I’m_ _sorry_ even though he isn’t really. He thinks it might be the ticket and right now, he’s willing to publicly apologise if it’ll get things back to normal. Harry never considered himself a needy person until he realised how much he clamours for Mr. Southgate’s attention constantly.

 

There’s a cough behind him that sounds suspiciously like _gay_ , followed by _perv_ , possibly from John who is still smarting after Winks’ well-meant inquiry. Harry holds his middle finger up in its vague direction and valiantly ignores the smattering of jeering laughter, because Mr. Southgate looks up briefly and his eyes catch Harry’s and if Harry collects all his wishful thinking and hope in one place, he can see the flash of a smile.

 

People are lazily passing yearbooks round to be signed, chewing on pen lids and bemoaning the school’s lack of air conditioning. He hears someone in the back corner start an enthusiastic debate about the state of the Euro England kit that Harry would normally gladly indulge in but he’s too focused on watching the expression on Mr. Southgate’s face change minutely as he listens, smiling and shaking his head and muttering his input that Harry would be the one to hear and argue with, were things like normal.

 

“We’re buying flights for Maga, you in?”

 

Harry hums lightly, waving a dismissive hand because he’s so close, he can feel it, tangibly sense that Mr. Southgate is going to give in within seconds and lift his head up, fix his eyes on Harry and blurt out his every thought and Harry will soak it all up and beam and say something winning that’ll make Mr. Southgate relax into his chair and chuckle and everything will be good.

 

 _God_ _bless_   _England_ , he thinks.

 

He tries coughing lightly and when that doesn’t work, coughing violently. He thinks about deliberately dropping his pen obviously closer to Mr. Southgate than himself so they’re forced into close proximity but the idea seems like something he’s learnt from badly scripted porn rather than a real solution - where’s Dele the advice guru when you need him?

 

“Just fucking say something to him!” Tripps hisses in his ear.

 

Harry jerks backwards like he’s been scolded and promptly feels like he is as that, that mistake of a movement that shoved his desk out of place and onto his foot, was what finally got him noticed. Mr. Southgate looks up suddenly, lips parted round a question as Harry curses quietly at the table leg suddenly crushing his toes, but it dies on his tongue as he sees the cause. Harry would have the gall to feel offended, if he didn’t feel overwhelmingly hurt.

 

When the bell thunders through the school and they all traipse out to sweat on the field, Harry holds back just long enough to see Mr. Southgate swear vehemently under his breath and knead his hands into his temples. It’s the perfect chance to speak, to apologise if that’s what he really wants, but he suddenly has nothing to say, caught in the sheer surreality of the situation. When Mr. Southgate looks at him carefully for a few breathless seconds, he thinks he understands it all but then he only walks past him without a word or smile and Harry knows he doesn’t understand anything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> seems like i’ve really got it in for stones but he’s just easy to take the piss out of considering the kinda lad he would’ve been at school  
> i was missing home a bit when i wrote this hence the unnecessary sentimentality


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> physically hurts posting this like harry isn’t injured and tottenham aren’t gonna reach relegation zone

“Is the lovers tiff over?”

 

Harry is sweating out of his skin; their PE hall is stiflingly hot, all open doors only offering gusts of warm air that with the harsh sun through the high windows means it’s close to a subtropical climate. His school shirt is sticking to his body like an itchy, ASDA designed second skin and he wonders belatedly if the sharpie signatures scrawled across the material have started bleeding apart because of his sweat. Dele doesn’t seem interested in the slightest when he brings that query up, choosing a smug questioning eyebrow instead. He’s not going to let Harry get away with it.

 

“I’ve no idea. He just doesn’t seem to like me anymore.”

 

It’s small and insecure, but truthful and for his trouble, Dele simply looks suitably sympathetic for half a minute before tapping him lightly on the shoulder in lieu of support and turning to demand Winksy design him a marker pen tattoo along the side of his left hand. He’s telling them all something about meeting Eric, fixing John with a look that dares him to comment, but everyone knows better than to argue.

 

“Lemme do your shirt.”

 

Harry dutifully produces a blue Sharpie, which Dele uses to draw a large dick directly over his left nipple, handiwork clearly signed. He sighs like a job well done when he’s finished and Harry can’t help but fall into a fit of laughter. It’s the last day at school, Harry’s last ever Friday wearing his disgusting purple tie, the ugly school shoes his Mum has forced on him since Year 7, last ever time he’ll have to walk through those doors. It’s also the last time he’ll be Mr. Southgate’s student. So, it wouldn’t be too much of a disaster if Mr. Southgate wanted to kiss him. Not that he would, of course, especially not now, but it makes him feel both better and worse to know his desires are ever so slightly more realistic; in the sense that Mr. Southgate would no longer face sacking, at least. He’s not sure that’s a particularly impressive pro to gain, but Harry is still fiercely positive and takes everything he can get.

 

“Gazza was asking after you, H.”

 

Even John’s mouth is hanging open. Tripps is scrolling through his phone, telling Harry without even looking up. Slowly, the weight of the stares draws him up and his eyes open impossibly wide at the sudden scrutiny of all 4 of them.

 

“Did you not think that was an important piece of information, Kieran? Harry’s been going bloody berserk, look at that poor lamb.”

 

Harry rolls his eyes against the hands suddenly squashing his cheeks together. It’s odd having John defend him, so used to backhanded comments he barely even notices anymore, that this is memorable occasion. Dele’s still shocked face serves as evidence, although he slowly smooths it out to rub a hand against Harry’s shoulder. His smile is intended to be encouraging, Harry hopes, but it’s definitely more menacing.

 

“Don’t wanna say I told you so, but I told you so.”

Harry’s eyes are beginning to hurt with his profuse eye-rolling, now employed to deal with the sudden nerves crippling him. Did Mr. Southgate suddenly realise he’s being a cowardly dick? Harry hopes so, bitterly, but he’s already practicing his apology as he stalks away from his catcalling friends to find him.

 

“Harry! I was looking for you!”

 

“Tripps - Kieran - mentioned.”

 

Mr. Southgate smiles, polite and routine. It’s strained, Harry can see, because he knows what it looks like genuinely, but it’s an attempt so he tries to tamp down the disappointment he feels at seeing it.

He sets off at a stroll, hands in his trouser pockets. Harry finds himself staring at the barest hint of skin he can see between his shirt cuff and pocket, remembering how the skin felt over his own, warm and smooth. He flushes the tiniest bit, school shirt suddenly feeling far too tight. The sound his shoes are making against the concrete seems deafening all of a sudden.

 

“I’ve been very unprofessional, Harry. I apologise.”

 

His voice is quiet and controlled, every careful inch of that composure in place but Harry can see now, sense the cracks in it and hear the insecurity held under the surface.

 

“I’m sorry too, I was stupid. It’s not a big deal.”

 

The sad smile he gets in reply to that says it rather is a big deal, for both of them, but Harry knows what’s the right thing to do and he’s unwilling to walk away from the man who’s supported him for nigh on half his life over something as ridiculous as inappropriate drunken affection. Harry will walk out of school for the last time having got a proper goodbye even if it kills him.

 

“I understand you’re looking to continue your football?”

 

“Yeah, we spoke about it at - yeah, we’ve spoken about it.”

 

Mr. Southgate clears his throat and once Harry risks a look, he notices his cheeks are rosy at his cheekbones. Everything is fragile in an entirely different way to the gentle touches at prom; this is make or break, a tentative nudging at the line to see what’s okay now. Harry hopes everything is as before. He tries to muster all his painfully hopeful enthusiasm, if only to make a caricature.

 

“Indeed. What’re your plans?”

 

Harry wants to focus on the high spots of colour for a little longer, imagines them there for a completely different reason against his will, but reluctantly pulls his focus away and tries his hardest to be normal.

 

“I’m going to trials for Stevenage in July, even though I know I’m probably too old, but it’s only League One, not the bloody Prem - excuse my French - and then hopefully I can progress from there. I’m going to Reading though, to do Sports Science, as a back-up. Probably end up being a PE teacher like you.”

 

Mr. Southgate’s smile widens throughout Harry’s anxious splurge of information, eyes crinkling at his enthusiasm and determination, and Harry can’t help the breath of relief he huffs out. It’s a good sign that he’s amusing again, like a naive puppy perhaps. The noise of fake affront he makes at Harry’s final words fills Harry with this overpowering relief, to know they’re laughing and joking again. Playing along, he schools his expression into one of horror for Mr. Southgate to only laugh louder.

 

“Not that there’s anything wrong with being a PE teacher, Sir, I don’t mean that.”

 

“Sir?”

 

Harry bites his tongue so hard he can feel the pain radiate through his whole skull. He’s a bloody liability, dropping himself into hole after hole that instead of escaping, he makes deeper. He’s barely just crawled out of one, only to fall arse over tit back into it.

 

“Sir, Mr. Southgate.”

 

He stumbles over it flippantly, wanting to tack on a whatever but fearing it’ll make him sound rude and he’s already made an embarrassment of himself. He bites the inside of his cheek to keep his mouth busy as Mr. Southgate visibly attempts to smooth out his features. Harry watches carefully as the tip of his tongue drags along his pink lower lip, gaze shooting down to his hands no longer in his pockets, to the way his fingers are clasped together, long and maybe rough, or maybe soft. Harry wonders for a minute if he’d prefer either way and decides both would be perfect.

 

“Harry? I wanted to ask if you‘d like to help me with the youth training over the summer. I can’t offer you any payment, unfortunately, but it would be excellent for CVs and keep you in the swing of things. If you’re interested. Of course. I would’ve asked at prom but..”

 

Harry can’t even begin to notice the awkward silence because he’s filled with pure happiness, wants to express his _yes_ , _yes_ , _yes_ , _definitely_ in more ways than he can even conjure up: wants to bounce around the field in childish excitement, wants to launch at Mr. Southgate and plant a kiss against his lips, wants to hug him until his ribs crush, wants him to understand and _feel_ Harry’s gratitude.

 

It turns out he just repeats yes a few too many times to be considered necessary, feeling himself vibrate despite all his attempts not to, face split open in a grin he’s not sure he’ll ever be able to shift. Mr. Southgate looks similarly pleased, infinitely more composed with it, but happy all the same. The distance since prom has reduced to nothing, ease and warmth returned because of a simple apology. Harry feels light-headed.

 

“Excellent! Excellent.”

 

Harry nods emphatically and coughs to distract them both from the Cheshire cat grin stretching his cheeks.

 

“Want me to sign your shirt?”

 

There’s a teasing edge to it, a glance on it that Harry could spend forever analysing if he let himself. Mr. Southgate is smiling at him, they’re stood stationary now, stood so close Harry could reach out and touch, so so easily. Instead, he nods wordlessly and hands over the Sharpie, making sure their fingers brush against each other just a little too deliberately to be considered a mistake, by them both.

 

Mr. Southgate opens the pen with his teeth, the lid held in the corner of his mouth as he assesses Harry’s shirt and attempts to find an empty space. Harry watches it all avidly, eyes following every movement like always, fucking shivering when he smooths a hand over Harry’s rib cage to pull the material tight. His chin tilts down as he writes and Harry has to resist the urge not to shy away from the ticklish feeling, feeling every second tick by like slow sand and Jesus Christ, Harry needs to get over this because it’s distinctly embarrassing to care this much.

 

He breathes a sigh of relief when the pressure of the pen is removed, but almost whines when the heat of Mr. Southgate’s hand leaves the muscle of his torso. He’s simply signed his name, with a little kiss that makes Harry blush schoolgirl pink. There’s a bubble for a second, Harry swears truly exists, not just in his own head, a hazy little bubble where Harry thinks maybe prom wasn’t such an anomaly.

 

“Oi, oi, oi!”

 

And the bubble is broken, shattered into a thousand pieces by Bami- _fucking_ -dele and Harry is seconds away from storming over to his smirking face and punching it directly in the nose for being the most deliberately oblivious person Harry has ever had the misfortune to meet. He hopes the middle finger he rubs against the side of his head discreetly translates that all.

 

Mr. Southgate just chuckles and says something completely normal and practical about training details and youth football fixtures and then he’s gone, Harry watching his arse shamelessly because it’s the least he deserves after his supposed best friend shattered the moment.

 

Harry refuses to talk to Dele until they’re back in his lounge, ties hanging from their necks and singed at the edges because Dele decided to take a lighter to them on the way home and found it was harder than it looked. He’s not even sure why he’s punishing Dele, but he’s taking great satisfaction from the ever more obvious scowl on his face.

 

“Look, I’m sorry I interrupted your little thing with Gazza alright? It’s not like anything was even happening but whatever. I know it was your reunion.”

 

Harry explodes with his news before Dele’s even finished his half-hearted, petulant apology. Dele looks like the cat that got the cream, blowing bubble after bubble with his bubblegum until Harry’s enthusiastic monologuing has ground to a halt and FIFA humming in the background is completely ignored.

 

“How are you gonna keep it in your pants? Pick your fucking team, by the way.”

 

“I’m not a bloody sex pest, Dele.”

 

“I’ve seen you get hard from a pat on the back from him, Hazza, so I’d beg to differ.”

 

“Funny one. Aston Villa, really? They were like 17th in the league.”

 

“Yeah, and tell me, did Tottenham win? No, beaten by Arsenal, so shut your cakehole.”

 

Harry rolls his eyes but doesn’t argue, because for someone with no interest in football outside fawning over David Beckham and a strange infatuation with Fernando Torres Harry can’t trace back, Dele knows every inch of it thanks to Harry. And uses it regularly to prove him wrong.

 

“Are you still gonna call him ‘ _Mr_. _Southgate_ ’?”

 

Dele affects a stupidly high pitched voice to mock him, air quotations and all.

 

“I don’t know! Those aren’t the important details!”

 

“You’ll probably start calling him Daddy instead.”

 

Dele sniggers to himself so loud he chokes on his own bubblegum, which Harry sees as karma, and certainly saves him from having to deliver a kick to Dele’s arse that’d only result in a fight.

 

“Risky of you to do this when I have the chance to batter you at FIFA.”

 

Harry doesn’t batter him. He loses 7-2, in some bizarre turn of events, and watches dejectedly as cartoon Modrić shakes his head in disgust.

 

“Just like the actual season!”

 

They do fight after that, a silly scuffle that ends when Dele’s funny bone bounces off the coffee table and he whines in surrender, complaining about delicate skin.

 

They end up getting drunk off a toxic cocktail of half-empty spirits from his Mum’s sticky forgotten drinks cupboard. Dele tells him about the colour of Eric’s hair in the sun, and how he lived in Portugal and makes it sound like the only perfect place in the world, and his massive family who have already met Dele and invite him round for dinner. Harry wants to talk about the way his stomach flutters at Mr. Southgate’s touch but he knows it’s not the same, so he doesn’t bother.

 

“I’ll have to meet this Eric, Delboy. Gotta know who I’ll be walking you down the aisle to.”

 

Dele squeals and shoves him and Harry laughs so hard tears leak out of his eyes. They haven’t spoken about tomorrow, or next week, or forever. Harry’s scared they never will, and Dele will move away to be famous somehow because _of_ _course_ and Harry will move only a town over but still be somewhere completely different, and they’ll barely even say goodbye. It’s one thing that terrifies him.

 

“You’re thinking out loud, H.”

“Answer me then.”

“I’ll miss you too.”

 

Harry doesn’t want to grow up.

*

Harry’s trainers are dragging when he stumbles into training the next day. Everything vaguely aches with that bone-deep certainty he associates only with hangovers and a good game of football, and he thinks bitterly of Dele sprawled across his bed and drooling over his pillow whilst he’s squinting against the bright early morning sun.

 

“Looking rough, Harry. Big night?”

 

Mr. Southgate pats a palm against Harry’s shoulder blades, the temporary pressure sending tingles down Harry’s otherwise aching spine. He smiles sheepishly up at him, conscious that his eyes are painted grey and he smells like a distillery.

 

“Something like that.”

 

( _Drinking_ _full_ _glasses_ _of_ _my_ _Mum’s_ _gin_ _and_ _discussing_ _what_ _you’d_ _be_ _like_ _in_ _bed_ _with_ _my_ _best_ _friend_ )

 

Mr. Southgate laughs wryly, eyes twinkling at Harry and muttering something about finding him a paracetamol that makes Harry’s tummy twist with butterflies rather than lurch with nausea. It’s a welcome change. He wants to think about how things are just normal again, but it makes his head pound.

 

“Saturday morning training’s a bugger, eh? Kids are so energetic.”

 

It’s conversational, easy. Waiting room chat, small talk for the bus that Harry would normally eagerly engage in but his ears are buzzing and his mouth feels dry and all he really wants is a Wetherspoon’s Full English. He savours a new and exciting fantasy of devouring a plate of greasy £4 food whilst watching Mr. Southgate drink tea and make insightful comments about the football and realises his standards have truly fallen irrecoverably.

 

“I used to be too. Remember when that was me?”

 

And, fuck, Harry’s stupid for making things even worse for his pounding brain, making the whole fancying your PE teacher and childhood football coach even creepier than it already is. Harry just knows Dele is laughing it up from his bed, probably still asleep. Bastard. Mr. Southgate just smiles and nods along, reminiscing a little and making the general socially acceptable pleasantries of a man not in love with the one in front of him. Harry envies him.

 

“I’ll give you the details for assistant coach after your session. Just come find me after.”

 

Harry thinks that’s, quite possibly, punishable cruelty. The promise results in Harry spending the entirety of training thinking about his request, missing ball after ball, to the point his coach Matt yells that he’ll be moved into defence if he doesn’t buck his ideas up. That’s terrifying enough for him to net a few fairly decent penalties, but not, apparently, enough for Matt to not scream that even Boreham Wood won’t want him with that mentality.

 

Harry diverts his eyes sheepishly, fully aware that he needs all the support he can get to break into any football league, even when he’s only aiming for third tier football right now. Maybe one day he’ll get to Aston Villa or something, if he buckles down and works on his finishing, and stops fancying Mr. Southgate.

 

Harry may have left school and have no obligation to be in his company ever again, but he can’t see that ever happening.

 

“Don’t listen to him, Harry. You’ll be playing for Watford in a few years.”

 

Harry swallows around the eager appreciation at the praise, cheeks heating like they always do when Mr. Southgate compliments him.

 

Mr. Southgate leads Harry into the staff room of their training ground and turns the kettle on despite the windows jammed open to cope with the early heatwave. Harry smiles at the gesture, watches as he makes them both tea and brings Harry over some biscuits with a kind smile and twinkling eyes.

 

There’s something about the gleam Mr. Southgate always has in his eyes when he speaks to Harry that makes him think he is something special; that Mr. Southgate sees something in him he doesn’t see in any of his other students, other players. That he knows how Harry feels, because sometimes Harry feels he knows everything, and he understands and shows Harry that sparkle just to prove it all without words. Harry thinks Mr. Southgate could be that clever, and that kind.

 

Except that Mr. Southgate does know, has seen with his own two - how ever drunken - eyes the effect his simple touch has on Harry. Harry wonders if he thinks about it and feels suddenly mortified by the idea. Sat in the staff room at school or the training ground lamenting about _this_ _embarrassingly_ _large_ _crush_ _one_ _of_ _my_ _students_ _has_ _on_ _me_ , _honestly_. He swallows around a lump in his throat.

 

Mr. Southgate lets Harry have the creaking spinny chair at the head of the table with a tiny grin and takes the seat to his left, laughing lightly when Harry spins round a few times and smacks his leg off the edge of the table with a yelp.

 

“If you’re quite done. I’m excited for you to join us, Harry. You’ll be excellent with the kids.”

 

Harry wants to know if praise like that is strictly allowed, because it makes his cheeks and crotch suspiciously hot. He’s sure Mr. Southgate isn’t supposed to say things like that, because anything that can set Harry’s tummy on fire quite that effectively surely isn’t socially acceptable.

 

Harry soon snaps out of his haze and realises praise is definitely allowed in proper social etiquette and he is just decidedly pathetic. He therefore dutifully ignores the lame swoop his stomach does at finding that the tea is exactly how he likes.

 

“Excited for the Euros?”

 

Harry’s enthusiasm oozes out of him at a startling pace by this rate, already launching into an in-depth analysis of England’s chances that Mr. Southgate listens to fondly, interjecting with appropriate, insightful comments that make Harry trip over his words in his haste to agree. He listens avidly, watching how Mr. Southgate’s mouth moves around his words as he takes over from Harry, watches how his hands wave around to prove his points, watches as this man laughs at Harry’s shit jokes and smiles brightly and tells Harry he’s so delighted he’s going to help him when Harry realises it’s his job to pick Daisy up from ballet on Saturday mornings and has to run out, smiling and bubbling with easy happiness and pure relief.

*

“Why are you so happy?”

 

Daisy poses it like his contentment is mildly offensive, head cocked to the side and staring at him with narrowed eyes.

 

“Just in a good mood, that’s all. Summer, innit?”

 

Daisy pulls on his hand harder, incessant and for no reason whatsoever other than for attention.

 

“Mum said you were hungover, so I _am_ a bit shocked.”

 

Harry loves the matter-of-factness of kids, how genuinely they believe everything they say. He chooses to ignore that his Mum announces his hangovers at the kitchen table to his little sister, and instead focuses on the pure confusion on her face. Her pink leotard is already muddy from their park detour and her curly blonde hair is slipping from her hair bands. He did tell her, but she told him to piss off because she doesn’t care. Harry thinks he might have Dele to blame for the language.

 

Harry races her through the park, letting her win until she demands a rematch because Daisy is far too clever to take her triumph at face value. Harry feels proud of that and rewards it with an ice-cream that does wonders at soothing his hangover. They eat them watching the ducks, Daisy naming each one and explaining their elaborate family tree, creating a complex network of ducks and their various marriages that impresses Harry for as long as he can keep up.

 

“I’m going to name that one-“ She points aggressively at the one sat by itself on the bank of the pond, beak tucked into its breast, “-Harry. He hasn’t got a girlfriend, see. He’s all by himself.”

 

Daisy has definitely spent too much time around Dele.

*

“Harry!”

 

“Hiya, Mr. Southgate.”

 

Mr. Southgate laughs fondly and claps Harry on the back, palm squeezing the base of his neck and he despises himself for the curl of arousal in his gut at the very thought, imagines the hand sliding upwards and keeping a firm grip around his neck, touch teasing but intentions clear, maybe he’d squeeze the skin and -

 

“Please! You can call me Gareth now.”

 

Harry makes a mental note to tell Dele, who will surely be delighted, as he is by every detail of Harry’s teacher-crush-debacle. The name doesn’t sound right on his tongue, feels more wrong than Sir had (which Harry ignores and blames on desperate porn selections) but he’s nearly 19, most definitely not at school anymore and not prepared to confirm Dele’s teacher-fetish comments.

 

“England vs France, eh?”

“Buzzing but absolutely terrified. Gives me a nervous tummy watching England.” 

 

Gareth chuckles that laugh Harry only hears in reaction to him, that he’s never heard watching him interact with others. It’s safe, after all these years, something comforting that brings a tingling warmth to his tummy.

 

“I’ve got a good feeling this year. Solid squad, decent group.”

“Me too.” 

 

They share a crinkley eyed smile before Gareth tells him the training drills he has planned. Harry will be giving the kids tips and checking they behave, handing out bibs and making sure no one makes mean comments about others football shirts. Harry spares a moment to remember a scrawny scratch of a boy who’d made fun of his Tottenham shirt when he’d first begun training, which had deeply upset his 10 year old sensibilities.

 

The kids are funny, Harry learns quickly. One cheeky shit makes a comment about how he speaks but before Harry can even begin to react, the boy beside him thwacks him across the back and tells him to shut up. Harry has trust in the next generation after that.

 

Their shots lack power, aim and accuracy a little weak but Harry has to remember they’re probably still in size 3 football boots. Gareth keeps on shooting him encouraging smiles, nodding when he says the right thing to another kid with a Beckham haircut or when he helps them get their angle just right.

 

“I heard what that cheeky bugger said about your voice. He’s always been a pest but, for what it’s worth, your voice is perfectly lovely.”

 

Gareth gives him this strange side eye when he says it, accentuating every syllable of lovely which is completely unnecessary and like with everything Gareth does that shoots to Harry’s cock, he wonders if he imagines it all. Even if he does, Harry still feels a sudden confidence in his voice that he was never even insecure about in the first place.

 

“Cup of tea?”

 

They’ve collected the final cones, kids sent off in a stream of enthusiastic bragging to their parents, Harry watching Gareth out of the corner of his eye the entire time, none-too-subtly staring at the curve of his arse in his tight black trackies. For the slightest second, he thinks he feels the hint of a stare at his own figure, but when he turns to look at Gareth, he’s absentmindedly counting cones and not watching Harry bent over. Fun while it lasted.

 

“Yes, please.”

 

Gareth leads Harry into the staff room again, empty because the older kids and their coaches are still pelting the field dry with their drills. He watches Gareth make tea like he hasn’t just a week previously, thrilling in the fact he can already intuit one of Gareth’s routines. Mugs next to each other, a splash of milk in each, teabag then water, stirred for 30 seconds, given to Harry with a smile. Gareth leans against the table this time, legs crossed neatly in front of him and knuckles resting on the edge.

 

If Harry let’s his mind wander enough, he could drop to his knees on the cheap carpet and settle between his legs. Rub Gareth’s cock through the material of his tracksuit, take it down his throat seamlessly, watch his knuckles grow white against the tabletop as he goes rigid with the pleasure. He tells Harry he’s perfect, so pretty, so good for him and then he fucks Harry over the table, messy and rushed and Harry would have marks all over his legs and stomach from where the table would dig into him, but it’d be worth it.

 

Harry is suddenly very aware that he’s getting hard. He’s also aware that he’s halfway to whining out Mr. Southgate which does nothing to dispute Dele’s teacher-fetish claim that he feels the weight of constantly and also leaves him needing to rush out the rest of it, _not_ pathetically.

 

“Sorry. Gareth.” He corrects himself sheepishly, cheeks pink he knows, a beacon of embarrassment. “Got any biscuits?”

 

Gareth chuckles and goes to rummage through the cupboards, leaving Harry desperately trying towill his cock down whilst simultaneously imagining whether Gareth would be rough or gentle and he hates his mind for contradicting him.

 

Dele meets him once he leaves, evil smirk painted across his face. He’s wearing an England shirt Harry can see, from the minute he spots him, was bought for a haggled tenner at the market in town and hot pink plimsolls. He looks like a JLS reject. Harry nods to his top when he’s close enough.

 

“That’s a fire hazard.”

 

“Be easy to burn then when England get knocked out first.”

 

Harry laughs despite himself, nudges Dele with a playful shoulder and they set off, Dele gushing about Eric with all his extensive energy. Harry listens passively, wondering more so where Gareth’s watching the football tonight. At the pub too, with his mates? Alone in his front room? Listening on the radio because his wife refuses to have it on?

 

Harry gulps. In the months - months - since he realised his teenage body and mind have betrayed him, he’s never considered the possibility that Gareth might be married. But then, he thinks, why wouldn’t he be? He’s intelligent, genuine, kind, intuitive - he must be in his 40s but he’s still gorgeous (Harry thinks, anyway) with his slender body and lean muscle, beautiful smile andsoft eyes. He probably has a family; children, who he teaches how to play in his back garden and cooks them dinner, and a wife he makes tea for and eyes twinkle for and he fucks.

 

Harry doesn’t slot into that world. He can’t be sat on the settee next to a little doe-eyed girl Daisy’s age and watch Disney films, he can’t lean against the kitchen countertop and laugh over a cup of tea, he can’t exist in that. It’s strange how one drop of reality is all it takes for Harry to crumble, suddenly self-aware and distinctly mortified.

 

“Del? Is Gareth - Mr. Southgate, whatever - is he married?”

 

Dele stops mid flow, mouth still open around his abruptly paused monologue.

 

“How the fuck would I know?”

 

“Because you made a Facebook account to follow all our teaches?”

 

Dele snorts like the claim is ridiculous but pulls his phone out all the same, thrusting it in Harry’s direction with the irreverence of a man caught out. To distract from it, he continues his enthused speech about Eric, eyes just that little bit glossed over like it truly all is a Disney film. If Harry was being over-dramatic, which he is, he’d say he’s living in a depressing forbidden love drama that will maybe result in imprisonment on his part if its an indie director, which it would be, he decides.

 

“I don’t. Just tell me, you probably know. Beaky.”

 

“You have no leg to stand on talking about noses, Kane. Last I knew, he’s divorced. No kids but he’s got a dog he adores. Might have died, though, you never can tell.”

 

“Dog?! What breed? How come you never told me all this, Dele!”

 

Dele looks at Harry incredulously, muttering something about _Gazza_ and _obsession_ that would raise Harry’s hackles if he could be bothered to shrug off the blissful relief at knowing there’s no kids kicking a football round a garden, no wife in the bed waiting for a cup of tea. Harry knows he’s rather ridiculous for caring, for wanting to know every detail like anything would ever happen but fantasies are always so much better when they’re founded on truth. That’s Harry’s defence as he argues with himself.

 

“Delboy!”

 

Harry looks up at the voice, a rumble with some foreign lilt, and of course it belongs to Eric. He’s wearing a bright red England shirt, stretched tight over his muscled arms and Harry can’t help but smile quietly as Dele’s eyes light up. Their snog is rather more enthusiastic than he’d deem socially acceptable, but he watches with an edge of jealousy anyway.

 

“Hiya, mate.”

 

Eric has a firm handshake and a permanently brooding expression, watching Harry from under his deep set eyebrows. Harry tries to ignore the scrutiny and focus on impressing.

 

“Into football?”

 

It’s his favourite (and only) diversion tactic. Luckily Eric takes it up quickly, hand resting on the small of Dele’s back, apparently completely uncaring about the cheap polyester of his shit kit. He tells Harry he supported Sporting Lisbon when he lived in Portugal, which Harry understands as the accent, but that he’s got a fondness for Tottenham that Harry indulges in enthusiastically. Dele is rolling his eyes so prolifically they must hurt.

 

“If you’ve finished stealing my boyfriend: get the drinks in, H.”

 

An immaculate navy suit catches his eye as he stands at the bar, rolled shirt sleeves and perfect tie, all too good to be true, and of course when Harry lets himself look properly it’s merely a businessman who’s smile has only a shade of the warmth Gareth’s does. The eye contact he offers, all unruffled kindness wrapped in authority, still creates a hollow in Harry’s stomach but he works his hardest to ignore it, determined not to make a habit of this, unwilling to give in to the temptation of a man just enough like him but never really. He pays for the drinks and walks away to ignore the spark of warmth in his gut.

 

When Lescott scores, for 9 blistering minutes, Harry feels on top of the world. His blood is pumping, hot and steady, the excitement of it overwhelming in just the way he loves. Winks is screaming with laughter at Dele running around like a hyper puppy, Eric singing Three Lions with a group of old men and their beer-soaked beards. It’s the first bloody game, Harry thinks with a smile, and this is how much people care.

 

He wonders how Gareth is celebrating and the brief eye contact he makes with the man at the bar sets his tummy on edge until Dele launches at his back and that all dissipates.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> euro 2012 was my first england shirt (the kit that year was minging)  
> (promise it won’t be much longer!)


	5. Chapter 5

“Bloody Nasri.”

 

“It was a beauty though.”

 

Harry grumbles and Gareth laughs lightly. It’s evening training tonight, a painful slog until home time that means Harry’s missing half the Sweden game. He’d tried to convince Gareth to reschedule training with his best puppy-dog eyes, lower lip wobbling and all but Gareth had just shook his head fondly and made him a cup of tea. Harry’s come to realise that’s what Gareth _does_ , and it makes him feel oddly content.

 

( _If_ _you’re_ _lucky_ , _I’ll_ _let_ _us_ _have_ _the_ _radio_ _on_ _the_ _pitch_ , he’d said, and Harry had to ignore how easily a few different words in his sentence would change its meaning irreparably)

 

Liam wanders into training in his Gerrard England kit, proudly displaying the back to everyone and miming taking a free kick. Harry chuckles as he watches his one-man show and can’t help the glitter of pride he feels seeing all the boys roar as his acted free kick lands in the path of Lescott and into the back net. He notices that they all pay a little more attention to their set piece play during training and he prays England steps their game up for that benefit alone.

 

Harry can feel the warmth of Gareth next to him, watch him easily from the corner of his eye with a smile. He looks so pleased with the lads, genuinely excited for their improvement and he remembers seeing that look reflected back at him as a 10 year old traipsing round on legs he didn’t know what to do with yet. The way it made his chest swell, that little seedling of belief and self-pride blossoming under it. He misses that simplicity but knows his praise still makes him feel much the same.

 

They’ve inched suspiciously closer together, hands brushing against each other every time one of them moves to play with their pockets and the late afternoon sun is creating a halo around Harry’s head, all golden hair and sunny smiles that he swears makes Gareth smile that much wider when he turns his focus towards Harry for a singular second. Harry imagines curling his little finger around Gareth’s, so simple he’d barely have to move, a little touch his heart could keep.

 

“Kids will be gone by half time.”

 

Harry hums and continues staring at Gareth, watching his Adam’s apple as he swallows once, twice, three times and comes to look at Harry. It’s a sudden crossfire, Harry’s bloody obnoxiousness stuck in the middle and taking the battering as his cheeks colour pink. Gareth’s eyes soften impossibly more (they’re _always_ soft) and for the barest sliver of a second Harry thinks he’s going to raise a hand and stroke it along his cheek, feel the heat of that rose pink for himself. Instead, Gareth clears his throat and tucks his hand in his tracksuit pocket.

 

“We could watch the second half, if you’d like. Only if you want to, of course, I’m sure you’ve got plans. Please don’t feel obliged.”

 

It’s the same calmly rushed voice he used when asking if Harry wanted to help at the club, that edge of insecurity Harry could do a million things to dispel, but he’s too scared to. He wants Gareth to know his answer would never not be _yes_ , _yes_ , _yes_ but he’s not sure how to express that without his neediness bleeding out of him in floods.

 

Still, he nods his head like an overenthusiastic dog giving itself whiplash, which makes Gareth laugh and if he could bottle one thing and keep it forever, it would be that laugh when Harry’s the one who’s caused it, bubbling and bright and all for him. He watches his fingers flex against the material of his tracksuit, wondering if he’s plucking up the courage to tangle their fingers together and breathe, but instead he claps Harry lightly on the back and rushes away to placate a boy whining about the offside rule. Harry feels winded.

 

“It’s completely unprofessional but we can watch it at mine?”

 

They’re walking side by side to the club’s car park, Gareth swinging his car keys around his finger. Harry concentrates on the gentle _clink_ _clink_ _clink_ and feels his heart in his throat when a cautious pinky finger is curled around his own. He feels so overwhelmingly lucky he’s not quite sure what to do with himself.

 

“I’d like that.” Harry stutters.

 

Gareth’s car is neat and well looked after, as if Harry could expect anything else. He rolls down the windows to cool down the hot black of the inside, shrugging off his tracksuit top so Harry can see the muscle of his arms move as he fiddles with the gear stick and taps the steering wheel. A thick vein runs down his forearm and Harry goes slightly slack-mouthed staring at it.

 

The radio’s on, BBC half-time commentary that passes in a blur because Harry is about to set foot in Gareth Southgate’s house, and sit on his settee beside him, and laugh or cry about England with him and Harry is halfway to pulling out his phone and sending a hysteric group text informing his mates but they’re already pulling up outside, Gareth smiling gently at him.

 

It’s as neat and ordered as his car, completely unassuming and exactly as he imagined. It’s similar to his own house really, and he knows the canal runs just behind the back garden fence because he’s cycled down it every summer since he could ride a bike.

 

“Nice house.”

 

He laughs, “Thank you.”

 

It’s painted white all over, the carpets surprisingly plush and a pale grey. Photos litter the walls, family portraits to holiday shots and football tournament celebrations that Harry could spend hours contemplating. There’s a few trophies on the shelves in the lounge and a sleepy terrier curled up on the settee. Harry feels choked up, bizarrely, at this insight into Gareth that no one else like him will ever have seen. He feels touched, maybe.

 

“This is Lily, she’s very friendly.”

 

The dog, Lily, is snuffling and rolling around lazily. Harry smiles and nods, reaching out to pet her and delighting in it when she eagerly accepts his affections. The dog likes him, that’s a good sign.

 

“Please, sit down. I’ve already crossed boundaries, so would you like a drink?”

 

There’s a self-deprecating humour to his tone that Harry supposes he understands but he just nods enthusiastically and says please and scratches Lily behind the ear until she’s continuously growling contentedly.

 

 **harry** : i’m at his house!!! we’re watching the football!!!

 **dele** : fuckin hell never thought i’d see the day

 **john** : use a condom

 **john** : and make me best man at the wedding

 

Harry rolls his eyes and turns the telly on, laughing quietly to himself at the sheer surreality; he feels euphoric. Gary Lineker is still rambling about the first half but Harry can hardly care about the football anymore, so full of excited anticipation he has to actively calm himself down. Be smooth, be subtle, don’t make a fool of himself.

 

How Harry ends up, for lack of a better word, drunk, with Gareth shouting in his ear, arms wrapped tightly around his shoulders and body heat so intense Harry can’t focus, he doesn’t quite know. He’ll smooth it out for Dele’s benefit, embellish it to match the film script of his ongoing adaption but why on earth would he care about that when he can feel Gareth’s happiness, feel it stronger than his own, in the warmth of his body against Harry’s and the way his hand lingers on Harry’s shoulder and the beam all over his face.

 

“Coming home, eh?”

 

Harry just laughs so deliriously he feels like he’s high, each simpering inch of himself playing into every whim. Thank God for England.

 

“Guess I’ll have to start supporting Arsenal.”

 

And Gareth shoves him lightly, a look of faux-disapproval on his face that sends a shiver down his spine, arching him further into the hand that’s migrated to the small of his back - oh, like Eric and Dele - and Harry’s never felt drunker even though he’s only had a few bottles of beer. Gareth’s gaze lingers momentarily at the dazed smile on Harry’s lips, eyes watching the movement as they smooth out and part ever so slightly. Everything feels high-wired.

 

Then the bloody dog barks and they break apart, which makes Harry laugh and then Gareth is laughing too, shyly almost and they’re just standing in his front room, hugging over a goal transitioning into standing stock-still, bodies still touching at so many points. Gareth clears his throat pointedly. The intensity of their eye contact is too much for Harry and he pulls away first, flopping back down on the sofa with a huff.

 

“I really enjoyed prom.” He says quietly, England still powering for the win loud on the telly speakers.

 

Gareth nods distractedly, seating himself carefully next to Harry. The fragility is back, the bloody tightrope that Harry wants to burn for making things so difficult. He knows Gareth wants him, likes him too, surely he does. He spends three hours drinking shit Prosecco with him and takes him to his house and looks at him slyly and tells him he’s proud.

 

He’s too drunk on nothing at all.

 

“If England score again.”

 

Gareth nods again and he’s not even entirely sure what they’ve agreed to but he’s suddenly fixated on the game, determinedly willing them on to fucking score so he can get whatever his reward is. Their thighs are pressed together, heat radiating through the material of their trackies and Harry thinks about a hand squeezing the top of his, of being kissed and held and fucked maybe, can England just score, _please_.

 

12 minutes to go and they’re shouting, cheering, jumping around and Harry thinks maybe he could become superstitious now because that was a bloody gift. They’re standing again, buzzing in the excitement of England actually winning and Harry tries to focus his haziness on the way Gareth is looking at him.

 

“Really gonna have to start supporting Arsenal now.” Harry mumbles.

 

“I don’t think so.”

 

It’s strange, really, experiencing something you’ve spent months imagining. Harry was expecting everything and nothing, so completely certain of how it’d be that he had no idea at all and he was right. It’s cautious, mostly, but Harry can concentrate on the softness of his lips and the hand on his cheek. He can smell aftershave, and taste him and once his brain has computed all of this, Harry whimpers, just barely, but the hand around the small of his back tightens in reply.

 

Harry’s breathing heavily when they break away, can feel how flushed his cheeks are and feels mildly embarrassed of it when Gareth looks completely unruffled, but even more so it turns him on and he launches back in to see if he can take apart his composure. Gareth directs him with a hand gripping his chin and it’s nowhere close to perfect; their noses bump together and Harry’s teeth keep getting in the way in his eagerness but it’s what Harry’s spent forever dreaming about so he can’t not whine.

 

When he uses his tongue to trace the lines of Gareth’s mouth, he’s rewarded with a little swallowed groan and now he wants more, more, _more_. The carpet’s soft enough, he would gladly kneel on it till they ached, or he could just sit on his lap until he came in his pants like the teenager he is, or they could do it all.

 

“Harry.”

 

“Mhm mhm.” He wants his mouth back now.

 

“You’re drunk.”

 

“Barely.”

 

Gareth shakes his head slightly, palm flat on Harry’s chest. Not a push away but an attempt to ground them both. Harry’s lips feel numb and he’s definitely half-hard and bright red. Gareth looks so sorry and Harry can’t work out who it’s for.

 

“I’ll phone you a taxi. I’d drive you but I’ve had too much.”

 

Harry wants to say _no_ , _please_ , _I_ _want_ _you_ _so_ _bad_ , _please_ _just_ _let_ _us_ but instead he says,

 

“Okay.”

 

And watches the conflict in Gareth’s face as he pecks him on the cheek whilst staring at his lips, pats him on the shoulder when his hand was on his arse not 20 minutes ago, remind himself _Harry’s_ _18_ , _I_ _can’t_ and even though Harry sees this all, he still can’t bring to say it’s okay, just please.

 

He can already hear Dele calling him a pussy and he’ll have no choice but to agree.

*

“You fucking wuss.”

 

It’s John who does the honours, actually, shaking his head exasperatedly and Harry feels suitably cowed by it. Dele is looking at him like he’s gone mad, Winks clearly confused and Tripps as unbothered as always.

 

“Why the fuck didn’t you do something?!”

“Because!”

 

Everyone shakes their heads now, even Tripps, and Harry almost begins shaking his head in mirroring because trust him if he doesn’t feel the same way. Instead, he puffs his chest out and musters his courage.

 

“Maybe I’ve grown out of it.”

 

A chorus of scoffing noises meets him and, yet again, Harry wants to hold his hands up in ready defeat because they all know that’s untrue. Harry can’t stop skimming his finger tips over the barely tender skin of his lips, for God’s sake.

 

“In your dreams maybe, H, but I think Gazza’s probably in them more.”

 

Half-heartedly he shoves Dele in the chest, resigned to the fact that his friends know him far too well, and wonders if maybe they can just smell the defeat on him or he’s really that unsubtle. With hours to have processed what happened, going over it again and again in his head, his dick’s raw and his lips are probably sorer because of how often he’s been playing with them rather than the kiss itself. He feels faintly pathetic again, but for an entirely different reason; now he’s too scared to take the bloody curveball God just chucked directly into his hands.

 

“The next time we have a group meeting, I expect to hear that you sucked his dick or you are out of the group.”

 

Harry heeds John’s warning with a hint of caution but considers it over and over as he lies in bed anyway, half preparing himself to be brave and half accepting a kiss is never going to happen again, it’s all over, Gareth won’t even want to look at him.

*

Harry really doesn’t expect, therefore, to be kissed again. Deadly sober and for no reason whatsoever.

 

He flexes his legs around the waist holding him up, considering for a sudden moment of clarity how the strain must feel around Gareth’s torso, the long lines of his body forced to support all matching 6 ft and muscle of Harry’s, but - _oh_ \- he’s leant against the wall for stability. The hard concrete against his shoulder blades and the pliant body before him, the warmth of this empty roll with all windows closed is overwhelming.

 

“Mr. Southgate.” Harry groans it, high and needy, the desperation in it making his toes curl and he tries to ignore how faintly ridiculous it sounds calling his teacher’s name, formality and all but his tongue’s only as clunky as his short-circuiting brain. Harry feels surreal, every inch of his body burning with the touch

 

Harry can smell every drop of sweat and bittersweet cologne, feel it heavy in his nostrils as his senses heighten impossibly. He wants, so much and yet Gareth is just watching, staring with frightening focus as Harry squirms impatiently and tries to control his breathing, regulate his voice, settle into the angle. Breathe.

 

“Breathe, Harry.”

 

Feeling faintly scolded and infinitely redder for the fact, Harry redoubles his efforts if only to please and follow orders. Gareth nods approvingly as their mingled breathing falls into step, a slow rhythm that’s almost as soothing as the circles being rubbed into his left hip. He suddenly wishes he was devoid of his training top, wants to yank it off and feel that meticulous pattern dragged into his bare skin but Harry knows he can only breathe.

 

“You can call me Gareth, y’know. Makes this a little bit weird that you don’t.”

 

He’s teasing gently, nose nuzzling against Harry’s chin lightly. It’s all soft and caring, no reference to the hard line of Harry’s cock in his trackies pressed against Gareth’s lower stomach, or the way Harry’s lips part sporadically in a silent request he gives up on in seconds. He thinks again about how his weight must be crushing, surely half the reason he’s being neglected when this clearly, _has_ to mean Gareth wants him, is prepared to let himself have him, but then Gareth nudges his cheek with the tip of his nose and their lips slot together just like that.

 

Harry’s hard work to create a breathing pattern Gareth approved of is spoilt in a singular second. It’s only a kiss; the briefest suggestion of tongue, only Harry licking impatiently at his lips but mostly chaste and pretty, a sweethearts’ thing. Every ounce of Harry, seemingly composed purely out of arousal in this moment, needs more but he’s all too aware that Gareth could just drop his legs and walk away. Back to a life not entertaining an 18 year old who will probably get them both in trouble.

 

“Pretty.”

 

Gareth mumbles it as they break apart, small smile curving his lips as Harry’s cheeks colour bubblegum pink. His thank you would be stuttered, so Harry pushes his arse back into the palm holding him firm and earns a brief chuckle.

 

“Silly boy.” He mutters fondly.

 

Harry feels like a child sent to the naughty step but his blush grows darker, he can feel every cell in his body burning at the words. The flush singes sweet as their noses brush together lightly, the briefest of touches that Harry can’t even care is painfully cheesy. It makes him smile all the same.

 

But like that, the moment pops like the bubblegum of his cheeks. Gareth slowly drops his weight, one light tap to his arse the only hint of what just happened as he puts a substantial distance between them and starts making Harry tea, with a Jammy Dodger which he bought especially because _I_ _know_ _they’re_ _your_ _favourite_ _Harry_ and talking about England’s chances at the Euros, like this is a coffee break and he hasn’t just made Harry’s face burn.

 

Harry can’t even begin to care that he’s still hard and noticeably so under the worn grey of his trackies because he’s so confused everything else pales in comparison. He feels like a toy, something Gareth plays with a little just to see the reaction, because why on earth else would he kiss Harry and pretend like nothing’s happened?

 

He still chats along, but quietly, trying to ignore all his long-trained instincts telling him to focus on the inconsequential movements Gareth makes. He’s suddenly exhausted of this game, painfully conscious of his age and inexperience and becoming ever more aware of how Gareth can see all that too. Confused doesn’t even cover it.

*

Harry likes watching the clouds. Daisy likes it too, and if the weather’s nice, they’ll lie in the field behind their house and look. Daisy will see all sorts of mad animals and Harry will make up stories just to hear his little sister denounce them in horror because _that’s_ _not_ _true_ , _Harry_ and he’ll find out all the Year 4 gossip and Daisy will find out what Dele’s up to and it’s nice.

 

They’re looking now, the sky perfect blue with cotton candy clouds that Daisy delights in, naming a menagerie of crazy animals and getting very irate when Harry can’t see them.

 

“You’re sad.”

 

Harry chuckles, just a little, before Daisy looks too hurt and shuts down into petulance. He supposes he feels a little lost, if anything. Lost as to what everything means, where he is, why it’s happening. Wondering if it even will. Harry’s always been too hopeful and too determined, a dog with a bloody bone that whines wounded when the bone snaps in two. Harry wonders if he should have ever tried to get closer to Gareth, because he fears he’ll only ever be kept at arm’s length.

 

“I’m alright.”

 

Is what he says instead. Daisy’s stare is pointed disapproval, hand coming to curl around Harry’s, clammy and tight.

 

“It’s okay to be sad. I was sad when Mum dropped my Barbie down the toilet, remember?”

 

Harry can hardly forget. The tantrum was lethal and resulted in a strict Barbie ban for anyone who wasn’t Daisy and her matching trio of terrifyingly honest and emotional 9 year olds. He loves his little sister but the experience put him off kids for life. Just as well.

 

“I think we should watch Sleeping Beauty to cheer you up!”

 

“Daisy.” Harry says tentatively, feeling her hair brush his cheek as she nods enthusiastically. “If I was with a prince and not a princess, what would you think?”

 

“Can I meet the prince? Is he why you’re sad?”

 

Harry kisses the top of her head with a smile, heart hurting in just the right way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> walcott and welbeck scored the second two goals and both were at arsenal at the time hence  
> massively unrealistic all of it but sweet concepts (gareth might have superhuman strength who knows)


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> eh they’ve danced around long enough!

“Harry.”

 

He looks up with a weak smile. Gareth is smiling the same as ever, nothing changing in the depths of his eyes despite everything outside of him that has. His eyes flick briefly to Harry’s lips which still manages to send a spark of excitement through him, even though he’s tired and confused. They fall into step, hands brushing against each other every now and again. The silence would becompanionable if Harry wasn’t nervously trying to protect himself from falling into the trap again.

 

Someone shouts Gareth over, another coach maybe, who’s hunched over a clipboard and scribbling furiously. Gareth offers Harry a hesitant smile and places a light kiss to the corner of his mouth without preamble,

 

“We need to take it slow. You’re too young, Harry.” He whispers into the shell of Harry’s ear, hand soft as it holds his neck and jaw in place, and jogs away.

 

Harry’s steps slow until he comes to a halt, cheeks burning and lips aching with how wide he’s smiling, how embarrassingly contented he feels at the simple admission, the small affection. He brushes a hand against the skin still warm from Gareth’s touch and pokes his tongue carefully at the spot where he was kissed. His hands are shaking.

 

“Harry Kane, you will be put in fucking goals at this rate!”

 

Matt is screeching, his voice reaching a frankly worrying pitch and volume that has Harry wincing. Gareth is still scribbling across a clipboard in the stands but every few minutes, he looks up and finds Harry, smiling fondly and rolling his eyes jokingly at Matt’s screaming. When Harry does something well, he immediately turns his attention in Gareth’s direction, easy to find where ever he is on the pitch because he can feel the heat of his gaze, and Gareth will nod and smile proudly. After Harry wins a header that finishes the game, Gareth mouths _well_ _done_ and Harry feels like he could float away.

 

That’s when he has the presence of mind to pay attention and impress. More frequently, his pace slows to standing as he daydreams staring at the empty summer evening sky, basking in the warmth of the sun on his neck as he thinks about everything he might finally get. _We_ _need_ _to_ _take_ _it_ _slow_. Harry doesn’t care.

 

It means, however, that his distraction is gladly picked up on by Matt, who is now chucking a pair of goalkeeping gloves at Harry and only screaming harder as he succeeds in aiming the right one directly at Harry’s head.

 

“Star striker, my bloody arse!”

 

Harry clenches his jaw to keep himself from hysterics, Gareth openly laughing as whatever paperwork resting on his lap goes ignored in favour of watching Harry. If Harry tries extra hard to show off after he realises that, let everyone believe it’s to keep Matt off his back. The near-permanent grin Gareth is attempting to hide behind the hands balancing his chin is more than worth it.

 

Matt advances towards him after sending his teammates off with a shrill blow of his whistle and a scream of “fuck off!”, mouth curled in a snarl of rage.

 

“You’re supposed to be my best bloody player, Kane, and you’re making me look a mug!”

 

Harry attempts to look suitably cowed - Matt’s insults and criticisms have rarely bothered him, even though being reprimanded is Harry’s greatest fear usually. It’s just something he’s learnt to ignore after 4 years of being screamed and sweared at on a football pitch.

 

“You better buck up your ideas, son.”

 

He’s waggling his finger now, voice still unnecessarily loud and piercing Harry’s eardrums, but he’s become more focused on Gareth walking towards them, his own authority radiating off him where Matt’s is clutched desperately between his hands. Harry smirks.

 

“Matt! Think Harry’s got the message now, don’t you?”

 

Matt grumbles, toeing the ground with his trainers and shooting Harry a cartoonishly contemptuous look.

 

“You’re gonna miss England vs Ukraine at this rate!” Gareth winks at Harry.

 

Matt lets out a steady stream of expletives, giving Harry one last warning glare before scampering away, muttering to himself as he goes. The pitch is empty now, the sky’s blue darkening behind the pinky clouds painted across it. The grass is parched from the sun, mud chalky and caked in dry clumps to the studs of Harry’s boots, patchy from footsteps and balls. Gareth is still chuckling lightly and when Harry notices, ridiculously belatedly, that the stands are empty he leans forward and isn’t stopped.

 

The first touch of lips is as tentative as any before, sweet and slow just like Gareth said. When Harry sighs and lets his body relax bit by bit, Gareth pulls him closer and holds him in a loose embrace that makes him whimper delicately. His mouth parts and he feels Gareth’s tongue against his own, gently exploring. Harry breaks away, breathless and feels delirious as Gareth lets him have onetwothree open mouthed kisses before their grip on each other loosens. Harry giggles, shocked at the sound coming from him, but it only gets louder and Gareth starts laughing too.

 

“We’re gonna miss England vs Ukraine.” Harry says jokingly, delighted that Gareth’s hand is still rubbing circles into the small of his back.

 

“Guess we better get a wriggle on, then?”

 

Harry could just about explode.

 

Harry doesn’t even think to text his friends this time. He’s too happy to live in this moment, Gareth humming along to the radio and tapping the steering-wheel in time, eyes flickering to Harry’s just so they can both smile at each other.

 

“I’m still in my kit, it’s all sweaty.”

 

Gareth rises up in his seat to look into the mirror, nodding slightly and gesturing to the backseat when he slides back down.

 

“There’s a spare t-shirt in the back.”

 

Harry gulps, can physically feel his Adam’s apple move under his skin. The t-shirt’s soft and well-worn, plain white and completely unassuming but it still makes Harry’s skin heat. He pulls his shirt off, grimacing slightly at the smell and painfully conscious of the eyes watching his bare skin, looking at the muscle of his shoulder shifting as he pulls the t-shirt the right way out. Harry thinks he hears the words _you’re_   _beautiful_  but he can’t make it out from the song playing. That doesn’t stop a flush covering his skin, or a shiver moving through him.

 

Gareth places a palm across the top his thigh momentarily, squeezing with the barest hint of pressure that sends Harry’s legs spreading apart. Gareth laughs throatily and brushes it up and down just barely, never quite reaching the bulge in Harry’s shorts.

 

“Tease.” He huffs through his nose, sliding further down into his seat in an attempt to find some friction. His dick rubs just barely against his boxers but it’s nothing. Harry tenses his muscles to remain above surface, wishing just for once he had the upper hand but the quiet satisfaction and complete control in Gareth turns him on more than it irritates him, and he loves the way he can make him laugh like that.

 

“Barely! Now -“ The hand moves away and Harry’s legs snap shut almost instantly “- predictions for the match?”

 

Harry makes a keening noise and tries to will his dick down, wishing he wasn’t so affected by every inching touch, but Gareth is looking at him expectantly as they brake at a red light.

 

“Rooney to score. Man’s not number 10 for nothing.”

 

Gareth hums deep in his throat and appears to consider his statement, launching into his in-depth analysis that Harry thinks would be handy if he was a gambling man. He’s still hard in his shorts and is sure Gareth is perfectly aware of it, the pressure of his arousal a low thrum and he considers for a brief minute just pulling his cock out and stroking himself until Gareth gives up but he’s not _like_ _that_. His hands remain clenched against his thighs, kneading viciously to distract himself. Gareth looks bemused, somehow, even monologuing like Sky Sports employ him.

 

“Your friends know about this, don’t they?” He suddenly asks quietly.

 

“Uhh. Yeah, they do. They don’t care. They think it’s funny.”

 

Gareth laughs, “It’s weird to think they know. What do they say?”

 

Harry snorts before he can stop himself. “A lot. They say. A lot.”

 

Gareth’s raised eyebrow is a question mark and Harry can’t stop himself from answering.

 

“‘If you don’t suck his dick you’re out of the group’ and ‘bet you call him Daddy’ and stuff like that.”

 

They’re laughing openly now and it’s so easy, something so honest it makes Harry feel warm. Gareth doesn’t seem to care in this realm, care that they shouldn’t be here, maybe because he knows why they are. He pats Harry’s thigh again jokingly.

 

“If you called me Daddy, I’d chuck you out.” He says faux-seriously and Harry gladly nods in agreement.

 

“Don’t worry, it’s not like that.”

 

Gareth nods contentedly and for the first time Harry feels like they’re on the same page, finally.

*

“I don’t really want to do it on my settee.”

 

Harry groans and wants to say something about it not being _that_ hard to clean or not being _that_ uncomfortable, but he’s lightheaded and a little bit speechless and just desperate to be kissed again, touched again. He nods disjointedly, hair already sticking to his damp forehead and lets Gareth pull him up gently, feels his lips against the skin of his throat and the game on the telly is just a blur of colour, not even through the first half.

 

It’s slow and gentle because, of course. Gareth doesn’t let them do anything other than kiss for the first endless, stretching minutes, surrendering just enough to let Harry settle on his lap. Harry takes that as permission to grind his hips just slightly, any bloody friction would be enough for him right now, but Gareth holds his hips tightly in place, fingertips pushed into the pliant muscle and tracing the lines of his hip bones.

 

“You’re too young, Harry.” He mumbles into Harry’s neck as they break apart, still steadfastly holding Harry stationery but Harry fights against the grip then and moves in unpracticed circles impatiently.

 

“Look, Gareth, I don’t care. I like you so much.” He wants to laugh, or cry maybe, with the fragile honesty and vulnerability twisting his voice, the conversation too pure and frank for the way they’re pressed against each other and sweating. Harry refuses to give up this time.

 

“I know, I like you too, Harry, of course I do, but we shouldn’t.”

 

“I know.” Harry’s voice grinds out now, fraught and tight. “But _please_.”

 

It’s strange to see a man’s facial expressions change so obviously, but once Gareth settles on reluctant acceptance, nodding just barely into the skin under Harry’s chin, Harry utters a little childish _yay_ to make him laugh again and delights in it when he feels Gareth’s chuckle raise goosebumps on his neck. They kiss again, Gareth letting Harry move as much as he sees fit and Harry is mortified knowing he could fall apart just like this.

 

“What would you like, Harry?” Gareth asks, peppering kisses along his jugular.

 

“I. I could suck you off?”

 

Gareth breathes harshly through his nose and the grip on Harry’s hips tightens, “What do _you_ want?”

 

Harry’s going to combust, the painful care so overwhelming. He wants it all, too much, so desperate for anything, he just wants whatever he’s allowed. Still within his own mind just enough, he manages a smirk Gareth returns with a bemused smile.

 

“I did want you to fuck me. If-if you want to do that, too. Maybe.” Bloody nerves.

 

Gareth kisses the anxiety out of him, smooth and easy until Harry forgets to stutter when he speaks. Hands are pulling at his t-shirt, then his shorts, boxers until he’s laid back against the duvet of Gareth’s bed, completely naked and very embarrassed by how hard he is.

 

“This isn’t fair.” He laughs and Gareth chuckles and says, “what isn’t?” as he strokes Harry gently and sends him arching off the bed.

 

“Are you normally this sensitive?!”

 

Harry groans and shoves his head into the pillows. Breathes the comforting smell of washing powder in deeply. Clean and safe.

 

“I’m hoping that you’ve got a condom, seeing as you’re 18 bloody years old.” and Harry mumbles into the pillow, “19 in 34 days actually and in my wallet. Jacket pocket.”

 

Gareth chuckles and kisses the soft skin of Harry’s thigh gently before he feels the mattress lift and Harry’s alone, chest heaving and trying to look anywhere that isn’t his already red cock, taunting him blatantly. He can still faintly hear the raucous cheering of the football, the surreality of the situation never ever lost on him; only heightening, really.

 

“It’s still nil nil.” Gareth tells him conversationally as he comes back into the room, foil packet between his fingers and still full clothed.

 

Harry hums noncommittally, muttering that Rooney will score soon and sighing when Gareth kisses along the muscles of his stomach. Something like lotion - definitely not lube - smooths across the base of his dick and Harry feels his stomach muscles convulse before Gareth leans up to kiss him open-mouthed again and asks against his lips if he’s sure. Harry’s _yes_ , _obviously_ is exasperated and impatient and makes Gareth roll his eyes fondly.

 

Harry’s fingered himself before, of course he has, but by himself he couldn’t get the right angle and it hurt his wrist too much trying to find the spot and stroke himself at the same time. But feeling someone else inside him, stroke him from the inside out gently, it’s insane. It’s a strange pressure, not uncomfortable yet but the second finger stings a little and makes his thighs clench. Gareth shushes him gently and moves his fingers slowly, getting him wet and ready, and Harry thinks he could get used to this, beginning to enjoy the strange feeling of fullness that sends shoots of arousal up his spine.

 

(“I thought we needed to take it slow,” Harry had teased on a hitching breath and laughed when Gareth cuffed the side of his head for his cheek)

 

“Can you take another?” Gareth asks after _is_ _this_ _okay?_ and Harry has to try his very hardest to hold himself together. He nods and pulls his legs apart further, smiling dazedly when he hears Gareth’s breath stutter at the image.

 

Harry can feel how wet he is from whatever makeshift lube they’re using, his stomach clenched and damp thanks to how much he’s dripping; Gareth is still in control, still mostly dressed for Gods sake. He goes to complain about it, whinge a bit maybe and then the third finger slides in, crooking just right and Harry has never felt pleasure like it. His moan dies in his throat, legs spreading impossibly wider as Gareth chuckles and holds his hips down to press against it firmly and Harry is seconds away, millimetres from the best orgasm of his life. He has, has to,

 

“ _Stop_ , please, I’m gonna come.”

 

Light kisses are dotted along his cheeks, ears, neck as Gareth pushes in, a thumb wiping the corner of his eyes that prickle at the burn. Every movement is slow and careful and he wants to cry at the intimacy and care, so strangely moved by it all. It takes a few minutes but then Gareth is fucking perfectly into the spot that makes stars litter across his eyelids, and Harry can only grasp at Gareth’s arms, whimpering and somehow, they’re both laughing and smiling and it’s so overwhelmingly sweet. Harry would vomit if it wasn’t his bloody fantasies come true.

 

”You’re gorgeous, Harry. So good.” Gareth mumbles into his hair and it pulls on him just as his praise always does, cheeks heating unbelievably more with it and he nods because that’s what he wants to be. “Are you close?”

 

Harry laughs but it’s dry with his panting breath, his whines acting as an answer. Gareth strokes him as smoothly and carefully as he’s fucking into him, Harry nuzzling into the skin of his neck, teeth cutting his bottom lip raw trying not to whimper, and when Gareth says _come_ _for_ _me_ , _Harry_ , _good_ _boy_ , Harry is helpless to disobey.

 

Gareth wipes them both clean carefully, paying extra attention to Harry with the warm flannel, touch soothing and full of no promise other than care. He asks if Harry’s sore which makes him laugh sarcastically and Gareth shakes his head again exasperatedly, placing one last light kiss to the muscle of his stomach before pulling the same worn t-shirt from before over Harry’s head.

Gareth’s stroking his hair absentmindedly, Harry wearing a pair of his trackies that dig in to his waist a little, Gareth’s fingers trailing under the waistband to ease the cut into his skin. He thinks he might cry. It’s all a bit too much, a bit too perfect and he feels so emotional, so sated and completely happy. So, so lucky.

 

Gareth hums and Harry feels it vibrate where he’s lying on his chest. “England won 1-0.”

 

Harry cheers jokingly. “And who scored?”

 

“Wayne Rooney.” Gareth sighs.

 

Harry’s never felt more smug.

*

The world doesn’t tilt on its axis.

 

Harry wakes up the next morning, aching everywhere he can feel. He’s sprawled across the empty mattress, thighs straining as he struggles to crawl out of bed. The drawstring on his borrowed joggers has been undone so they sit comfortably on his hips now and he smiles, feels the simplicity of being looked after like a gift.

 

“Morning.” Gareth says from behind a newspaper, half eaten toast on his plate and two mugs next to each other.

 

“My arse is killing me.” Harry mutters, taking the seat beside him and smiling at Gareth’s answering snort.

 

“Good morning to you, too.”

 

The dog snuffles in its sleep on the rug before the oven, pots of herbs lining the window sill that lay heavy shadows on the counters from the morning sun filtered through the window. It’s strange being here in the way he is, the sense of not quite belonging still heavy on Harry as he takes a sip of the tea too soon. It burns his tongue.

 

Harry wonders at next, taking-it-slow shot to pieces within hours of it being said. Harry’s finally got he wanted and now he doesn’t know what he wants next. He ponders if Gareth knows and decides he must, the steady acceptance in all his actions relaying that he’s a man who knows himself. Harry wishes he had the same talent.

 

“You’re thinking out loud, Harry.” Harry needs to learn not to feel so scolded at that tone.

 

“I’m sorry.” He mumbles, tongue still numb.

 

“No need to be. Things are just the same as always.”

 

Harry isn’t so sure about that, especially not when Gareth pecks his cheek putting their dishes in the dishwasher, especially not when he makes him come again and especially not when he drives him home a few hours later with a kiss goodbye.

 

It’s a parallel universe he’s perfectly happy to carry on living in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> feel like anytime i write anything vaguely sexual abt these two i’ll have to disclaim it’s unrealistic but the only way to make it realistic was if i didn’t write it hah
> 
> can’t even talk abt t*tt*nh*m


	7. Chapter 7

“First on the meeting agenda: Harry consummating his marriage to Mr. Southgate.”

 

Everyone stamps their feet under the table, slamming the surface and clapping, Harry red faced and desperately hopeful they won’t be obnoxiously loud about it all. Dele is watching him expectantly, curled up in Eric’s lap like an oversized cat who probably purrs the same way. Harry shakes his head violently to dispel the idea.

 

“You finally shagged?!” Winksy is naively pink and Harry feels guilty watching John roll his eyes and give him a look that says _finally_.

 

“And the honeymoon is in a few days!” It’s Dele, hands clasped under his chin and eyelashes fluttering. Eric kisses him quiet and Harry can’t help but feel a surge of gratitude for that.

 

“It’s not a honeymoon! It’s a youth team trip to Southend.”

 

John holds his hands up in surrender, eying Harry evilly from under his eyebrows. Harry would be lying if he said he wasn’t terrified of that look.

 

“H, I’ll give you £20 if you suck him off when he’s driving.”

 

Harry chokes on his drink.

 

“Excuse me?!” Harry’s glad to see he’s not the only one in shock, Winksy now scarlet and staring into his glass like it might save him. Harry wishes he was so lucky.

 

“Just tryna spice up your sex life.”

 

“Thanks Dickhead Spice, but I think we’re good.”

 

“I offer marriage counselling at a very reasonable rate.” Dele pipes up again, yelping when Eric pinches the thin skin of his elbow hard. Harry nods his thanks this time.

 

“I’ve no idea why you’re getting at me when love’s young dream is breaking that chair.”

 

Dele sticks up his middle finger, too occupied with swallowing Eric’s tongue to dignify that with a response. Harry snorts into his drink, trying to drag Winks into a conversation about his new girlfriend to see the blush bleed out of his face but he’s still eying Harry warily. Harry would find it funny if he didn’t look faintly horrified, the memory of ever PE lesson playing in his eyes and probably forever tainted. On second thoughts, it is enough to make him snicker and thankfully, Winks titters nervously too.

 

“Have a good time, though, yeah?” Winks tells him kindly before downing his pint and wandering away to kick the fruit machine in frustration. As if Harry would plan on anything else.

*

Harry feels faintly guilty addressing a group of football-mad 10 year olds when he knows he’s sucked their coach’s dick in his own football shirt, been fucked in it sometimes if they’ve got enough time and Harry is whiny enough. He’s managed to learn how to get what he wants if he’s bratty enough, something he never thought he’d use as a weapon, or ever at all, but it works wonders if he wants to be fucked open or licked, once and he’s only human, needy in his youthfulness.

 

Not only is there the guilt of the young lads hanging on his every word about aim and technique and finishing (Harry had had to cough into the neck of his top when Gareth had left too long of a pause after saying that), but the strangeness of doing perfectly simple tasks with the man who was kissing you senseless not hours before. Watching the football in the pub, driving around, eating dinner. It’s bizarre.

 

Harry’s currently struggling to understand this predicament, yet again, as they speed down the motorway with his throat hoarse and voice raw from what they did before they left. Gareth has this strange smirk every time Harry speaks, which he finds as infuriating as he does attractive. The radio’s on, cheesy 80s hits Gareth sings along to absentmindedly, fingertips beating out a rhythm against the steering wheel. Harry stares out the open window at the expanse of yellowing fields underneath a clear blue sky, feeling strangely homesick for the country he’s already in.

 

“I haven’t been to Southend for donkeys. I used to go all the time as a kid.” He tells Gareth, in between humming along to Spandau Ballet, ignoring Gareth’s raised eyebrows at his knowledge of the lyrics.

“Gotta win a match first.” Gareth reminds him, eyes hidden behind sunglasses Harry wishes weren’t there.

 

“Bit of a pain in the arse having to drive your kids down to Southend, innit?”

 

Gareth pinches his bare thigh, the material of his shorts having ridden up, “You know we don’t have the budget, Harry.”

 

“Just saying, imagine driving your son to the seaside on a baking hot day and you’re not even gonna see the beach?”

 

Gareth shakes his head like Harry needs to get his priorities in order, still smirking faintly at the roughness to the edges of his words. Harry rolls his eyes and indulges him, asking about tactics and smirking for himself when Gareth eagerly launches into his game plan that takes them through the rest of the journey and to the reception of the football club.

 

“My kit’s smart, innit, Harry?” One of the boy’s is determinedly stabbing a finger at his shirt, demanding Harry’s attention and only acquiescing when he nods enthusiastically.

 

Half time in Harry’s world is a few sips of water and restrapping of shin pads, returning to the pitch hearing a few decibels worse thanks to Matt’s screeching. In the youth team, it’s all orange slices (Harry had no idea those were still a thing, Gareth amused by his surprise) and bragging, excitement and optimism even when they’re losing.

 

Luckily, they’re not, and Gareth and his boys win 3-1, which makes Harry feel slightly better about dragging their parents to Southend in their own cars. Gareth is beaming at the final whistle, discreet grip on Harry’s wrist tightening just barely in celebration and Harry can’t help but grin too. He thinks his nose might be red raw from the hot sun, and his limbs are damp with sweat, drowned in the thick tracksuit he’s required to wear, but Gareth is truly smiling and kisses his cheek when they round the corner, so it’s all worth it.

 

“Thanks, Harry!” The kids chorus at Gareth’s insistence before they’re pushed in the direction of doting parents, eagerly inspecting the medals they all got. Apparently Harry’s assistance in finishing had won the game, the boy up front scoring with the direct advice Harry had imparted - he might have noticed if he wasn’t so busy focusing on Gareth’s hand on the base of his spine underneath his top when no one was looking.

 

Harry feels like an excitable child when Gareth relents and drives them to the coast, giving Harry his sunglasses when they leave the car because he makes one passing comment about the sun. _The_ _man’s_ _a_ _bloody_ _martyr_ , Harry thinks with an exasperated grin.

 

There’s such a surreal domesticity about Gareth buying him an ice-cream as they chat about films; sitting on the pebbled beach discussing their families. On the train journey across the pier, Harry can feel Gareth watching him stare at the sea as they travel further over it, feel his gaze on the back of his head and when nobody around them is looking, Harry leans over and kisses the corner of his mouth gently.

 

Harry can’t help but feel like he’s doing something wrong, however. Like he’s going to get caught out for breaking the rules, for being bad. The fact that every fleeting touch and word of promise is hidden and discrete just cements the feeling, the unadulterated guilt Harry never considered would be a factor. There’s some things a little too close to home he feels like they just don’t want to discuss.

 

Harry scrutinises his nose in the car mirror when they start driving home, finding it is red raw from the sun and starting to peel. Gareth pulls his hand away firmly when he starts to pick off the skin and tuts faintly.

 

“I’ll have to put some aloe vera on it.” He shrugs, continuing to itch at it despite Gareth’s disapproving looks and he groans when Gareth sing-songs “ _hello_ _vera_ ” over the CD playing. Sometimes things are said and done that just make him want to laugh until he can’t stop, and suddenly he’s laughing breathless, Gareth joining in until he can feel tears at the corner of his eyes.

 

Harry stares at his hands on the steering wheel, the tight grip and veins visible, and thinks about next because life won’t slow down and stop for them. He knows forever can’t exist, that university is staring him down in mere months, preparation for trials and potentially a career in the thing most important to him. In the way they smile at each other, and laugh for endless minutes, and talk mindlessly, Harry knows it’s a stolen moment for both of them.

 

Gareth smiles at him after the lull in conversation thanks to Harry’s silence, and it’s bittersweet, a squeezing hand on the top of his thigh for a touch. They sing along to the radio and chat nonsensically and it’s imperfect in a way Harry wants to keep forever.

*

Imperfection defines most of it. It’s awkward, half the time, inexperience and nervousness making most of it a continuous laugh. Harry uses too much teeth when he gives his blowjobs until he learns from his mistakes and the one time they try to have sex not on a soft surface, their heads smack into each other and Harry has to pull away, his hard cock comically ignored as his vision blurs for a few minutes and by then, they’ve laughed too hard to want to carry on. 

 

Harry still gets too breathless and moans too loud when Gareth fucks him just right, hips held at the perfect angle, which he thought he’d grow out of and regrettably does not. Gareth still treats him like a piece of glass and refuses to listen when Harry argues otherwise, determined to take care of him even when everything’s okay.

*

England get knocked out and Harry gets insanely drunk with all his mates, splurging out all their secrets and barely notices until Dele is aggressively telling him to shut up and John is cackling loud enough to have the whole pub staring at them. Only when he zones back in does he realise he’s absentmindedly explaining the ins and outs of Gareth fucking him, and then he blushes hot red. John wolf whistles whilst Tripps looks faintly disgusted, Winksy having run away to the fruit machines probably as soon as Harry started talking.

 

“I know you’re sad about England, H, but I didn’t think sad enough to do that.” Dele snorts, Eric-less for the first time in a long time.

 

“Where’s the sidekick, Delboy?” Is Harry’s retaliation, Dele raising his eyebrows exaggeratedly.

 

“Yeah, where’s Rodney got off to?” John barks and Harry fears that they’re all at the stage of drunk where they start to hurt each other.

 

“With his own mates because he’s sick of you boring bastards.”

 

Bingo.

 

Harry’s caught between cruel laughter and pure fear as John and Dele brawl drunkenly, no real malice other than the alcoholic kind, which makes it all the clumsier and funnier, especially when the barman tells them to fuck off and John succeeds in booting the leg off the table they’re sat at attempting to escape from Tripps’ grip on his arm. He wonders how Gareth would react and in his drunken filterless brain, he decides with a delightful shiver that he’d have to punish him and is inches away from whining down the phone line when Dele pulls on his wrist with a roll of his eyes and takes his phone away.

 

“You’re a vanilla bloke, H, I think you’d give him a heart attack.”

 

Somewhere over his shoulder Tripps yells something like _he’s_ _already_ _at_ _risk_ _because_ _he’s_ _practically_ _geriatric_ and Harry raises a blind middle finger he hopes meets the desired target. Dele snorts again, inelegant as ever, and shoves him along to pass out on his bedroom floor with his mouth dry and the vague notion that he’s missed being stupid and 18. Harry blames his age for how he views minutes as years and hours as decades.

 

He dreams again, the blur of alcohol obviously filtering into his sleeping conscious, something that in the past would have left him frustrated and rock hard in the morning, fucking up into his own fist and knowing that was the best he was gonna get. It’s odd to dream when he can make it a reality and he feels strangely like he needs a new something to lust after when he wakes up in the morning, Dele’s hand dangled precariously close to his open mouth.

 

They play FIFA dangled upside down on the sofa, full with one of his Mum’s fry-ups, for the rest of the morning, Daisy desperate to join in and deliberately being loud to watch how Harry grimaces at the strain on his head with glee.

 

“Do you know Harry’s prince, Dele?” Daisy asks after her seventh attempt to steal one of the remotes.

 

Dele smirks and slides further down the settee so he’s making eye contact with Daisy upside down, bitten-nailed fingertips pinching the skin of Harry’s arm for his full attention.

 

“I do.” Dele smiles, “Maybe not a prince so much, bit ol-“

 

Harry coughs so loudly he rips his throat apart but after a harsh punch to Dele’s ribs that winds him, he knows he’s out of the danger zone and Daisy carries on rambling about all the girls at school who’ve got their ears pierced but _Mum_ _won’t_ _let_ _me_ , _Dele_ , _isn’t_ _that_ _unfair_.

 

Dele smirks affirmatively, eyebrows waggling at Harry and for all he hates his shit-stirring best friend, the comfort of sitting next to him doing nothing worth mentioning means he loves him just as much. The mocking little kiss Dele presses to his bottom lip when he’s not looking confirms that Dele knows and agrees and Harry doesn’t feel so scared about next.

*

The summer goes on just the same, a rotation of spending what feels like final moments with his best friends to the stolen hours with Gareth. Harry sleeps over a lot, finds out that he curls up around someone when he sleeps in a bed with them, and knows that Gareth loves it, loves that he wakes up to Harry all around him, needy even in sleep even if he calls him a limpet and shoves him away with a laugh. 

 

Gareth takes him to the seaside again, during another heatwave, and they eat fish and chips on the promenade wall and Harry wins a shit plastic toy on the arcade 2p machines. Harry had joked that Gareth should’ve won him a teddy bear like in the films, Gareth saying it isn’t America and Harry doesn’t like teddy bears but he seemed to warm to the idea and bought Harry a scratch card instead. They’d yelled ecstatically when all the logos added up until they realised they were looking at the wrong thing and had promptly fallen apart laughing, Gareth promising to win him something else, sometime.

 

Trials for football clubs inch ever nearer, Gareth helping him out of his training hours to perfect every last intricacy, his body permanently exhausted as a result but the bone-deep tiredness pleasant when Gareth’s kind enough to kiss him silly in the dressing room afterwards.

 

It still feels like a dirty little secret, his Mum giving him pointed looks every time he returns home after a night sleeping in Gareth’s bed, Daisy desperate to know all about the man she’s never met but knows exists. The guilt is part of the fun, he thinks, maybe, but it’s also still something profoundly difficult about it. No one in Gareth’s life knows and that’s even worse.

 

Gareth rewards him prettily when Stevenage accept him as a striker for the new season, but the sense of finality in their movements makes Harry’s rib cage tight. He spends endless minutes stretching Harry carefully, taking his time and Harry’s toes curl as he runs his voice raw, coming before he’s even inside him.

 

They still laugh, a little, as Harry rides him patiently, a slow drag to draw things out as long as possible, everything bleeding into one stretching period of pleasure. Gareth strokes his thighs gently, eyes completely focused even blown wide and the intimacy is almost painful. If Harry works even harder fucking himself on him, to feel it more, make it memorable, neither of them mention it.

*

“You were never not my favourite.”

 

“Teachers who have favourites are the worst kind.”

 

“I’m aware. You’re gonna go so far, Harry, and I’m so proud of you. How could you not be my favourite.”

*

Gareth takes to telling him he’s proud of him more and more, like he needs Harry to know it and Harry appreciates it, of course he does, it still makes him warm and happy and blushy. He misses the way they laugh and smile, the way Gareth treats him, whenever they’re apart, Dele teasing him for it endlessly even draped across Eric’s lap. 

 

“You’ve taught me so much.” Harry tells him honestly, slouched over the plate of food in front of him.

 

“Not table manners, apparently.” Gareth chuckles with a sharp kick to his shin to pull him into better posture.

 

Harry rolls his eyes, “I’m trying to be serious!”

 

Gareth just nods and kisses him carefully, immediately returning to joking about the thing he read about Rooney in The Sun the other day and Harry has to tell him faux-disapprovingly that he shouldn’t read The Sun and they get into the kind of good-natured argument Harry thinks they should include more in those cheesy romantic films. They’re fun and honest and make Harry howl with laughter, and they put that gleam in Gareth’s eyes that Harry spent half his school career obsessing over.

*

Harry clears up the training field, staring at Gareth the entire time and knowing, this time, he’s being stared at back. The warm curve to his lips, as ever, the softness of his eyes, the strength of his hands. All the things Harry knows now and never thought he would, the well done’s that still feel like the world in a few syllables. He finds it funny how nothing can change whilst everything does.

 

The kids thank Harry in a loud, rehearsed chorus, without Gareth’s insistence this time and some of them even hug Harry hard around the waist, Beckham haircuts damp with sweat and Gerrard kits smudged with mud. Harry’s every single one of those boys and so he hugs them back, just a little, and waves them away with a smile.

 

Dele is waiting for him, for a boys night before they all spread out around the country and find new things, new people, and the fear of growing up is stranger when he _is_ growing up, having to say goodbye and learning to live without it. Harry’s always been devastatingly positive, yes, but dreadfully sentimental too, and all the creeping thoughts about the future are finally being realised.Positivity tells him he’ll only move on to better things but sentimentality tells him to go back to what makes him feel safe.

 

“If I find out you started supporting bloody Arsenal.” Gareth tells him with a disapproving finger that makes Harry laugh.

 

They’re back in the staff room, cups of tea and Jammy Dodgers, football chat like it’s a month before. Harry wants desperately to make him laugh, to be funny enough to see him smile and he’s so glad when laughter’s just as easy as ever.

 

“Stevenage, eh?”

 

“Fuck ugly kit.”

 

Gareth laughs throatily, “You'll look good anyway”

 

Harry grins and mutters his thanks, kisses it to cement it, familiar and safe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is definitely my favourite chapter even though it’s a mismatch of silly situations that would never happen  
> i’ll post the last chapter fairly soon because it’s more of an epilogue than a chapter


	8. Epilogue

Harry straps his shin pads tight, socks pulled up high and still slipping down his calves. The echo of expectation rattles around the dressing room, littered as it is by Lucozade bottles and odd socks. He can hear chanting and cheering, goosebumps rising on his skin as he grins down at his laces. His boots are just starting to crease along his toes, broken in enough to feel like his.

 

The weight of the number on his back is enough to twist his stomach with anxiety but he’s determined, buzzing with unspent energy and prickling with the desire to run himself ragged, make people proud. He wonders if Daisy’s impatient yet, or still as excited as she’d been asking him a million questions a minute at breakfast, his Mum kissing the top of his head fondly.

 

There’s still fifteen minutes, slow, endless moments Harry uses to concentrate on his breathing like Gareth taught him, and think about all the people he’ll be making proud. Dele’s somewhere within the crowd, draped around Eric’s waist and probably taking a hammering from the crowd he’s oblivious too - Harry smiles bittersweet at the thought.

 

Thinking about finding his best mate in the crowd, seeing how his eyes light up watching Harry succeed, sets Harry’s pulse alight with excitement - he’s so distracted by concentrating on everything, focused on so many things his mind can’t keep up with that the incessant buzzing of his phone doesn’t register.

 

 **gareth** : Good luck today, Harry. I’m excited to see you win x

 

Harry gulps against the rising lump in his throat, smiling quietly to stop the way he wants to beam, eyes gleaming and heart light. It’s been months, tens of days Harry couldn’t count if he’d ever wanted to. A strange memory, nostalgic like the faded graininess of a summer photograph, feeling just the same. Something to smile about, miss as you stare into the dark, but you know deserves to stay in its place in time.

 

That doesn’t change the fact that Harry misses him so fucking much.

 

 **harry** : thank you. i’ll look out for you if i score x

 

He wonders if he’ll see the same warm, encouraging smile, one he could pick out of swarms of people and will get the chance to, suddenly desperate to score in order to get that possibility. A painful reminder, like hearing a song from a time gone by, warm comfort of it just edged by regret for something left behind.

 

Harry knows forever can’t exist truly, just like perfect was never a thing, just like shouldn’t happen means it will anyway. Growing up was picking his battles, leaving behind what he knew he had to for the things he wants to move with, a stab at a football career the most important thing they’d agreed. Harry still wishes things were different but he’s reached acceptance.

 

 **gareth** : I’ll be waiting x

 

(When Harry scores in the 83rd minute, he can see Gareth cheering, hear his smile, his laugh, his well done

 

When Harry walks through the tunnel 10 minutes later with a 2-0 win, he can still hear Gareth clapping and feel his pride like a bubble in his throat

 

When Harry stumbles back out of the changing room, euphoric, he sees Gareth first, waiting, eyes moving up to watch him, standing to hug him, tell him he’s so proud

 

When Harry finally meets him in the middle, his body melts into Gareth’s, drained and jagged-edged, Gareth’s lips pressed to his forehead

 

When Harry pulls away, he looks at him, their hands looping, and smiles)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you so much for reading!! i hope you got some enjoyment out of it :)

**Author's Note:**

> feedback most definitely welcomed :)


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